


acting like you do

by GreyMichaela



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Accidental Outing, Amnesia, Angst, Blow Jobs, Dom/sub Undertones, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, I'm not kidding guys, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Outing, Rimming, So much angst, anti Patrick Kane, soft Dom Mika, unintended outing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2020-07-27 14:15:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 29,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20047399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyMichaela/pseuds/GreyMichaela
Summary: It’s a man about his age with dark circles under his brown eyes. He’s holding Mika’s hand. His five o’clock shadow is almost shockingly dark against pale skin, hair shaved close to his skull. Mobile brows are drawn together in worry as he meets Mika’s gaze, but he tries for a smile.“Hi,” he whispers.“Wh—” Mika clears his throat. “Who are you?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (Work of fiction, no disrespect intended, just having fun with these characters)
> 
> This started out as While You Were Sleeping, but gay. It's morphed a bit because I can't resist a good fake relationship, but that was the original premise.
> 
> Disclaimer: I've never heard Chris call Mika Zee, but I think it's adorable so I'm using it, FIGHT ME. Also he HAS called him a sweetheart, so there.
> 
> I call this "Talk To Me While I Stare Lovingly At You" by Mika.

The first thing Mika registers is how much his head hurts. It’s an all-encompassing ache, starting somewhere on the right side near his temple and radiating out and down. His neck hurts, his ribs sharply protesting when he takes a breath. 

The second thing he registers is an insistent beeping. It cuts through the fog in his head, drilling right to the center of his brain and making him flinch.

“St-stop,” he whispers. He tries to lift a hand but it won’t move, something holding it fast. Is he paralyzed? Fear jolts through him and he draws a pain-soaked breath. 

“Don’t move,” a gentle baritone orders, and somehow the voice is so calming, so familiar somehow that Mika finds himself relaxing in spite of the panic still jangling his nerves. “I’ve called the nurse, Zee, just don’t move.”

Mika tries to open his eyes. The room is dimly lit but even so his retinas feel seared, and he clamps his eyelids shut again, biting back a groan.

The door swings open and crepe-soled shoes squeak, coming closer.

“I think the beeping is hurting his head,” the same voice says, pitched low and soft. “Can it be turned down?”

“Of course,” a woman says briskly, and a few seconds later, the beeping recedes into background noise. Mika swallows the grateful lump in his throat, but he’s asleep again before he can say thank you.

The next time he wakes up, his head still hurts but it doesn’t feel quite as ready to crack open and let his brain spill out. Mika takes careful stock. His ribs feel broken—probably at least two of them, he decides. And something is still keeping his hand pinned to the bed. Mika tries to move it, and the weight lifts from it abruptly.

“Hey, you’re awake,” the voice says. Mika wants to know what he looks like, but he’s afraid to open his eyes again. “I had them turn the lights as low as possible. It looked like they were hurting your head.” 

Mika cracks one cautious eyelid. The room is almost completely dark, illuminated by light from the hall and running lights set in the floor along the wall, glowing faintly. Mika opens his other eye and turns to the source of the voice.

It’s a man about his age with dark circles under his brown eyes. He’s holding Mika’s hand. His five o’clock shadow is almost shockingly dark against pale skin, hair shaved close to his skull. Mobile brows are drawn together in worry as he meets Mika’s gaze, but he tries for a smile.

“Hi,” he whispers.

“Wh—” Mika clears his throat. “Who are you?”

The next several minutes are absolute chaos. The man hits the nurse call button several times and four nurses invade the room, crowding around the bed and pushing the stranger back to give them room to work. Mika’s hand feels cold when the man lets go of it, but he submits to the examinations, answering the questions obediently.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Four. Now three. Five.”

“What’s your name?”

“Mika Zibanejad.” He has no idea where that answer came from, but the nurse just nods.

“What year is it, Mika?”

“2014,” Mika says immediately.

“And do you know where you are?”

Mika hesitates. “I thought… Sweden, but… you’re speaking English. What’s going on?”

One of the nurses pats his hand. “The doctor will be in to talk to you soon. Hang tight for me.”

Several of the nurses leave and the man scoots his chair back to the bed. He doesn’t try to take Mika’s hand again, something which Mika is faintly grateful for. His eyebrows are pinched even closer together.

“You really don’t remember me?” he asks softly. There’s _ something _ in his voice but Mika’s too exhausted and hurting to parse out what.

“Should I?” he says instead.

The remaining nurse, checking his IV, snorts. “Considering you’re married to him, I would hope so, honey.”

Mika turns to look at the man, who suddenly can’t seem to meet his eyes. “We’re married?” he asks, disbelieving.

“My name is Chris,” the man offers. “It’s, um. 2019, and we—we play together. For the New York Rangers.”

Mika stares at him. “We play in the _ NHL?” _

Chris nods.

“And we’re _ married?” _

Chris’s mouth works, and he shoots a look at the nurse.

“Alright, alright,” she says cheerfully. “I’ll get out of your hair. Doctor’s on his way.”

She disappears and Chris scoots another inch closer.

“Why don’t I remember you?” Mika whispers. He feels impossibly small and exhausted, and he wants—he holds out a hand without thinking, and Chris grabs it immediately.

“I don’t know,” he says. His thumb rubs rhythmic patterns on the back of Mika’s hand. “Maybe the doctor can explain it.”

“Don’t leave,” Mika says, hating how fragile he sounds, but Chris just squeezes his hand.

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

The door opens again and a small, brown-skinned man bustles inside. He’s balding, with round glasses set on a snub nose. “Mr. Zibanejad,” he says, consulting the chart at the end of the bed. “I’m Dr. Daniel Hernandez. How are you feeling?”

“My head hurts and I can’t remember the last five years,” Mika says miserably. He’s holding Chris’s hand so tightly it must hurt, but Chris makes no complaints. 

Dr. Hernandez hums, flipping a page. “Temporary post-traumatic amnesia is not uncommon, especially considering the severity of the injury you sustained. Mr. Kreider, keep the shocks to a minimum—immersion in present-day life will not help him remember.”

“Temporary,” Mika says, grasping at the lifeline. “You mean it’ll come back?”

“It should,” Dr. Hernandez says. He scribbles something on the paper, then rounds the bed and pulls a small penlight from his pocket. He peers into both Mika’s eyes, then listens to his heart and lungs. “You’ve got a concussion, so no electronic screens for the next month. That includes phones, tablets, and television. No reading for the first three weeks. After that, fifteen minutes a day, but if your head starts to hurt again, stop immediately.”

Mika nods dumbly.

“You also have two broken ribs and a sprained wrist,” Dr. Hernandez continues. “The wrist needs to be kept immobile for at least a week but it should heal quickly. Your ribs are wrapped. The bandages need to be removed once daily to give your body room to breathe, then reapplied.”

“I can’t remember all this,” Mika says helplessly. His head is spinning and he just wants to go back to sleep.

“I’ve got it,” Chris says, squeezing his hand again, and Mika relaxes. Chris has it. Chris will take care of him. Mika doesn’t even know who he _ is, _ but somehow he has absolutely no doubt that Chris will remember every word the doctor said and follow it perfectly.

When the doctor leaves, Mika looks at Chris, who gazes steadily back. His brown eyes are full of worry, but he manages a smile as Mika stares at him, searching for anything familiar, anything that would trigger a memory.

He likes Chris’s face, he decides. Either he hasn’t shaved in a few days or he prefers stubble, Mika doesn’t know, but even several days of growth does nothing to disguise the dimples that flash when Chris smiles. His nose is a little long, his mouth wide, and warmth shines from him. Mika wants to curl up against him, let Chris hold him and keep the world at bay, and he’s a little shocked by the impulse. He doesn’t _ know _ this man.

Chris’s smile slips and he rubs his face when Mika says nothing. “I’m—I need coffee. Do you want some?”

“Three creams—”

“Two sugars,” Chris finishes, standing. His smile is tired. “I know. Be right back.”

—

Chris waits until he’s safely in the elevator before he pulls out his phone.

“How is he?” Henrik demands.

“He’s awake,” Chris says, sagging against the wall of the car. “Lucid, talking. In pain, but not complaining, you know how he is.”

“When can we come see him?”

“Uh….” Chris doesn’t know how to even say this. “Look, he—fuck. He has amnesia.”

_ “What?” _

“He thinks it’s 2014. He doesn’t remember the last five years. Not playing in the NHL, not getting traded to the Rangers, none of it. He thought he was in Sweden.”

Henrik swears in Swedish. 

“There’s something else,” Chris says.

“What?”

“He, uh.” Chris swallows hard. “When they took him in, I was… upset.”

“Yeah, Brady told me.” Henrik sounds fond. “Kinda lost your head a bit, didn’t you?”

“Beside the point,” Chris snaps. “Anyway, um. The nurse asked how I knew Mika, if I was related. Said they couldn’t let me back to see him if we _ weren’t _ related, and obviously I can’t pass as his brother, so, uh.” He takes a deep breath. “They think we’re married,” he says in a rush.

“Oh, _ Kreids.” _

Chris suppresses the urge to beat his head against the stainless steel wall. “I know. I _ know. _ But they wouldn’t let me see him, Henke, I was going out of my mind, I didn’t know what to do, I just—I didn’t really _ lie, _ but the nurse asked and I didn’t… _ quite _ say no?”

Henrik sighs. 

“And then a nurse said it _ to _ Mika, so now _ he _ thinks we’re married but he doesn’t remember me and oh my god this is so fucked up.” Chris rolls his head and presses his cheek to the cold metal wall.

“Does he know what year it is?”

“Yeah,” Chris mumbles. The elevator dings and he straightens and steps out, down the hall to the cafeteria. “But the doctor said to keep him calm, that too many shocks to his system right now aren’t good. So I didn’t—I haven’t told him we’re not married.”

“Or that you’ve been in love with him for years,” Henrik says.

“Or that,” Chris agrees, making for the coffee machine. “So when you guys visit, I need you to just….”

“Keep up the pretense,” Henrik finishes.

“For now,” Chris says. “Just until he’s feeling better. I don’t want to dump it all on him at once. And maybe his memory will come back on its own and he’ll understand why I did it.”

“That or he’ll punch you for taking advantage,” Henrik points out.

“I’m _ not,” _ Chris protests, filling the second cup. “I’m—I wouldn’t, you know that. I’m not going to trick him into bed or anything, come on.”

“I know,” Henrik says gently. “So you want me to tell the team?”

“And Gorton?” Chris asks, wincing.

Henrik sighs again. “You owe me.”

“Babysitting for a year,” Chris promises recklessly.

“Oh, you’ll regret that, but too late. When can we visit?”

“Doc said tomorrow he can start having visitors, two at a time.”

“See you tomorrow,” Henrik says, and hangs up.

Chris shoves the phone in his pocket, gathers up the coffee, and heads back upstairs.

When he pushes the door open and steps inside, the relief on Mika’s face is stark, quickly masked by a clearing of his throat.

Chris holds out his coffee and Mika takes it, murmuring something grateful. He takes a sip and sighs, eyes slipping closed.

“I thought hospital coffee was supposed to be bad,” he says, taking another sip.

“This is a good hospital,” Chris says as he sits back down beside the bed. “Fancy-ass coffee machines, fresh-baked pastries, the works.” He watches Mika’s face, tracing the line of his jaw, his heavy lidded eyes, the curve of his full mouth.

“What happened to me?” Mika says, cradling his coffee in both hands.

Chris grimaces. “Fucking Patrick Kane, that’s what happened. You were in the corner, digging the puck out. You’d just gotten it away from Toews when Kane hit you. You went into the boards at an angle. Hit your head.” He takes a shaky breath, remembering how the bottom had fallen out of his world. “I thought you were dead,” he whispers.

“How long have we been married?” Mika asks abruptly, and Chris nearly drops his coffee.

“I, uh. Not… long?”

Mika nods. “How long have we been together?”

Chris breathes deep. “I’ve been in love with you for the better part of five years,” he says, and he knows the raw honesty bleeds through, from the way Mika looks up, gazes at him thoughtfully, lips pursed.

“And how long have I been in love with you?” Mika asks. “When did we _ get _together?”

Chris fumbles for words and is saved by a nurse pushing the door open.

“Time to check your vitals again and for you to nap, Mr. Zibanejad,” she says cheerfully. “Mr. Kreider, do you have anywhere to be?”

“Oh, please can he stay?” Mika interjects.

The nurse is clearly just as much a pushover for Mika’s pleading brown eyes as Chris is. She takes one look at him, sighs, and nods.

“If anyone asks, I’m not the one who gave you permission.” She checks Mika’s temperature, making reproving noises about it being high, then listens to his chest and takes his pulse. Finally she slings her stethoscope back around her neck. “You—” She points at Mika. “Sleep. You—” She points at Chris. “Not a peep out of you, got it?”

Chris nods silently, and the nurse sweeps from the room, flicking the lights off on her way out. 

Mika fiddles with the bed, adjusting it until he’s lying almost flat. He turns over, grimacing and moving slowly, until he’s on his side facing Chris, and stretches one hand out across the mattress.

Chris doesn’t hesitate. He’s reaching out to take Mika’s hand before he’s consciously registered the thought, and Mika sighs as if relieved.

“I don’t know you,” he slurs, his eyelids drooping.

“I’m sorry,” Chris says nonsensically.

Mika squeezes his hand. “Chris,” he whispers. Pain, exhaustion, and drugs are clearly dragging him down.

“Sleep, sweetheart,” Chris murmurs, and Mika’s mouth curves briefly before his breathing slows and deepens and his hand goes loose in Chris’s.


	2. Chapter 2

The team descends on the hospital the next day. The nurse knocks on the door, looking slightly shell-shocked, and beckons Chris into the hall, where he’s set upon by at least ten very large men who all want to hug him.

“Guys,” he protests, smothered in Jordan’s armpit. “Guys, I need to—mmph—_ breathe, _ Jesus Staalsie, are you part orangutan?”

“How is he?” Filip asks when Jordan releases him and Chris has managed to put himself somewhat back together.

“Henke told you?”

A chorus of nods.

“Well, he still can’t remember anything. And he thinks—”

“He thinks you guys are maaarried!” Brady chimes in, pulling a face he probably thinks is adorable.

_ “No one _ is to tell him otherwise,” Chris says sharply. “I’ll deal with that once I get him home, understand?”

Brady rolls his eyes. “Chill, man, we’re not gonna spill your beans. Who’s first to go see him?”

They sort it out, pairing up to go in as Chris waits in the hall. It takes a while, and he’s fidgeting before the last couple comes out, Henrik and Buch, grinning as they leave the room.

“How is he?” Chris asks.

“Tired,” Henrik says. “Go in there and be with your boy.” 

Chris is already moving for the door. He hesitates before he opens it. “Guys—thanks. For… coming. Being here.”

Brady waves him off. “Get your ass in there and tenderly mop his brow or whatever it is you guys do when you’re alone.”

Chris shoots him the finger and slips through the door.

Mika’s eyes are closed, bruised circles beneath them, head turned away toward the window.

“It’s just me,” Chris says quietly.

Mika opens his eyes and there’s no mistaking the relief in them. “Thank God,” he says. “They’re nice, but—”

“A lot. I know.” Chris rounds the bed and sits down, hesitating. Will Mika _ want _to hold his hand? But Mika’s already holding his own out, and relief floods Chris’s system as he takes it in both of his. “They love you,” he murmurs.

“But not as much as you do.” It’s not a question, Mika’s eyes steady on Chris’s face.

“Pretty sure that’s not possible,” Chris says, trying for a smile.

“I can’t….” Mika’s grip tightens. “I can’t say it back yet.”

“I don’t want you to,” Chris says immediately. “Not until—unless you mean it.”

Mika says nothing, but the lines of tension around his eyes soften.

“Who else knows?”

“Um.” Chris racks his brain. _ Keep the lie as small as possible. _ “Just the team, really. Your, um. Parents, and mine, they don’t know.”

Mika looks puzzled, a line forming on his brow. “Why not? My parents know I’m not straight. Surely they’d be fine with it.”

“Yeah, but—” Chris shrugs. “We didn’t tell my parents and I just thought—it made more sense to wait.”

“Speaking of, shit—my parents? Do they know? I mean about—” Mika gestures vaguely at his head.

“Coach called them,” Chris says. He strokes Mika’s knuckles, feeling the tiny hairs spring back under his finger. “They wanted to come over but I think Coach convinced them not to. He said they send their love.”

Mika relaxes. “I should call them.”

“I’ll dial the number,” Chris says instantly. “You can’t look at electronic screens, remember?” He pulls out his phone, dials, and hands it over. “I’ll be in the hall.”

“You can stay,” Mika protests, but Chris shakes his head and slips from the room.

“Mama,” Mika says when she picks up the phone.

“Mika, my darling boy,” she says, and there’s relief and worry and happiness at hearing him threaded through her voice. “This is what it takes for you to call me?”

“I’m sorry, Mama,” Mika says. He closes his eyes and settles back against the pillows. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

His mother makes a _ tsk _ noise. “I’m a mother, love. It’s what I do.”

“Mama—I don’t… remember.”

_ “Anything?” _ his mother says sharply.

“Not since 2014. I don’t—I play in the NHL? And for the Rangers? I live in New York City? I don’t—none of this makes sense.” Mika grinds the heel of his hand against his eye socket.

His mother makes a soothing noise. “Is Chris there?”

“He—yeah. He was here when I woke up.”

“Of course he was. Let me talk to him, love.”

Mika can see Chris’s broad shoulders through the window, silhouetted by the light from the hall. Shouting will hurt his head and probably bring angry nurses, so he fumbles for a pencil lying on the table beside him and lobs it at the glass. Chris turns, and Mika beckons. He holds out the phone and Chris’s eyebrows knit but he comes into the room and takes it.

“Hello?”

Mika leans back against the pillows and closes his eyes, only half-listening as Chris talks in a quiet voice, explaining what happened.

“Yes ma’am,” he finally says. “I’ll take him home with me. I promise I’ll take good care of him. I’ll let you know if anything changes.”

When he hangs up, he puts the phone on the bedside table out of Mika’s reach.

“We don’t already live together?” Mika asks, eyes still closed.

“You keep a place in the city not far from me,” Chris says. “But you’re over… with me… more often than not.”

“Can we go there now?” Mika wants suddenly, desperately, to be out of this sterile hospital room, to be somewhere comfortable. He wants to be alone with Chris instead of having nurses prodding and prying at him. Tears prick his eyelids and he blinks them away.

Chris takes his hand. “Soon, Zee,” he says gently. “They have to make sure you’re stable.” He hesitates, then cups the unbruised side of Mika’s face with his free hand. “Just a little longer, okay?”

Mika turns his face into Chris’s palm and takes a steadying breath. _ Soon. _

They release him from the hospital 48 hours later. Chris insists on him using a wheelchair down to the front entrance, which Mika allows with bad grace. The car is waiting, and Chris hovers as Mika levers himself into it, grimacing as his ribs protest the movement. Chris slides in the driver’s side and then leans over to buckle him, shoulder brushing Mika’s chest. He smells amazing, an aftershave Mika doesn’t recognize but that still somehow settles something deep inside him. He lifts his good hand and touches Chris’s face before he can withdraw, and Chris freezes.

“Is that—sorry, should I not—”

Chris catches Mika’s wrist as he tries to pull away. “Touch me all you want, sweetheart.” His eyes are soft as he smiles, but there’s something else in his expression, something Mika’s too tired to decipher.

Instead he cups Chris’s jaw, runs a thumb across the top of his cheekbone. Chris shivers but doesn’t move until a car honks behind them.

“Right,” Chris says, pulling reluctantly away. “Should probably get us home before we get shanked for holding up traffic.”

His driving is careful and steady, no sudden jerks or hard braking to save Mika’s head and ribs, and it’s not too long before they’re pulling up outside an apartment building. 

“I have a parking space but I’m going to let the valet take it this time,” Chris tells him as he unbuckles. “I don’t want you walking more than you have to.”

He gets him out of the car, Mika panting with the effort, and gently pulls Mika’s arm over his shoulders, snaking an arm around his waist.

“This okay?” he asks.

Mika nods, breathless from the pain, and allows Chris to guide them into the building, through a glossy lobby and past an impeccable doorman into an elevator big enough to hold an elephant.

“I’m getting—the impression,” Mika manages, “that you—like expensive shit.”

Chris laughs, resettling his grip. “I’m a New York Ranger, baby, I can afford it.”

“What about retirement?” Mika shoots back.

Chris’s expression softens.

“What?” Mika asks as the elevator rises.

“Nothing, just—we’ve had this discussion. Multiple times. You think I spend too much and I should invest more of what I earn.”

“Past me was pretty smart,” Mika says, and that earns him a grin. 

“Present you isn’t too shabby either.” 

The doors slide open and they step out into a carpet so thick their feet sink into it. Recessed lighting and running lights along the walls provides a soft glow as they shuffle along the hall slowly until Chris stops in front of a door and digs out his keys.

“This is me—us.”

He pushes the door open and lets Mika make his careful way inside, disarming the beeping alarm as Mika looks around.

_ Nothing _ looks familiar. Not the enormous leather couch spanning most of the already huge living room, not the artwork hanging on the walls. Not even the small shelf where Chris puts his shoes and then waits expectantly as Mika fumbles to get his own off.

Mika swallows frustration. “I don’t—none of this is—”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Chris says gently, stepping in close so Mika can hold onto him for balance if he needs to. “Doc said it’ll probably come back, yeah? Don’t try and force it.”

Mika sways into Chris’s space and Chris brings his arms up to hold him in an almost automatic motion.

“Easy,” he murmurs. Mika presses his forehead into Chris’s shoulder and squeezes his eyes shut.

“I’m so tired,” he mumbles.

“Well, let’s get you into bed,” Chris says. He directs him through the apartment, one solicitous hand on Mika’s elbow, and into a bedroom flooded with light from the windows bracketing three walls. Chris lets go of him and begins drawing blinds until the room is dim and Mika can see without wincing. “Hop in, then,” Chris says. “Wait—need to pee first?”

Mika shakes his head, crawling between the sheets. They’re cool and crisp, comforting against his skin, and he can’t help the moan as he relaxes into the pillows.

Chris moves around the room, picking up and tidying, but when he’s done, he hesitates in the doorway.

“I’m going to make dinner. I’ll be just down the hall. If you need me—”

Mika doesn’t want him to go. Mika wants him to stay, to crawl into bed with him and bury his nose in Mika’s hair. He wants to fall asleep with Chris’s arm around him and his breath steady and warm in his ear.

He nods. “Thanks.”

Chris watches him for a minute and then leaves. 

Mika wriggles around until he’s comfortable but it takes him awhile to fall asleep.

He wakes up to the smell of frying ground beef. It doesn’t take him long to use the bathroom and then shuffle in that direction, breathing shallowly to avoid aggravating his ribs.

“Hey!” Chris says. He’s standing at the stove, looking unfairly good in gray sweats and a T-shirt so thin it’s almost see-through in places. “Stroganoff okay? How’s your head?”

“Hurts,” Mika says shortly. 

“Hang on.” Chris turns to dig through the plastic bag from the pharmacy. “Here.” He holds out two pills, which Mika takes, then hurries to the refrigerator for a drink.

Mika swallows the pills, washing them down with cold water, and then props his chin on his good hand to watch Chris cook.

He’s good in the kitchen, he realizes, movements unhesitating and confident as he tastes the broth and adds more seasoning, humming under his breath.

“Oh, you know what,” Chris says, looking up. “Now would be a good time to unwrap your ribs for a bit.”

Mika grimaces but pulls his shirt slowly up and over his head. When he emerges from the fabric, Chris is kneeling in front of him.

“I can do it,” Mika protests.

“Why should you have to?” Chris counters. “I’m right here. I’ve seen it all. Just… let me help you, okay?”

Mika sighs and lifts his arms so Chris has room to work. His fingers are warm as they brush Mika’s skin, unwrapping each layer of bandage carefully and piling it on the table. When he’s done, he sits back on his heels as if to survey his handiwork, and Mika has to fight the urge to cross his arms over his now-bare chest. Chris _ has _ seen it all, he reminds himself.

“When’s the next game?” he asks.

Chris rocks fluidly to his feet and returns to the stove. “Day after tomorrow. Home game, though, so at least I won’t have to leave you yet.”

Horror strikes Mika. “You’re—you’ll have to travel for the away games.”

Chris stirs the meat, looking unhappy. “It won’t be for long. We’ll get a nurse or someone to help, okay?”

“No,” Mika says flatly, and startles Chris into looking up. Mika lifts his chin. “It’s just wrapping my ribs and wrist, right? I can do that. I don’t—I don’t want anyone else here.”

Chris’s eyes soften. “Okay,” he says quietly. “If I call you to check in, do you promise not to look at the phone except to answer it?”

“Yeah,” Mika says. He can’t help his smile. “I promise.” The pills are beginning to work—he can feel himself getting a little floaty, a little distant. He has an overwhelming desire to hug someone, so he gets up and limps into the kitchen.

Chris turns the heat off before facing him. “Hey, what—”

Mika shuts him up by wrapping his arms around him. He can feel the startled breath Chris takes, and there’s a delay of a few seconds before he brings his own arms up and carefully puts them around Mika’s shoulders.

“Hey, Zee,” he whispers.

Mika rubs his face against Chris’s chest. “You smell good.”

“Pain pills make you affectionate, got it,” Chris says, but he sounds oddly out of breath.

“Tell me about us,” Mika says, eyes closed.

Chris takes a deep breath and rubs Mika’s shoulders. “You shouldn’t be on your feet. Go sit down.”

“When did you know you loved me?” Mika asks as he reluctantly obeys. The chair is comfortable but Chris isn’t touching him, and Mika’s not a fan. 

Chris busies himself assembling ingredients for sauce. He seems off balance, but when he looks up at Mika, his smile is sweet and genuine. 

“You’re my center,” he says softly. “It was… I don’t know, a few years ago. I passed to you during a game and you scored and I just thought… ‘that’s it, I wanna be with him forever’.” His dimples deepen, and Mika knows somehow that he’s about to be self-deprecating. “Took you longer, of course.”

“Why of course?” Mika asks. “Look at you. Why wasn’t I all over you immediately?”

Chris blushes, stirring the sauce a little too aggressively. “I’m not in your head, how would I know?”

Mika makes a dissatisfied noise. “So I was an idiot, then.”

_ “No,” _ Chris says immediately. “You’re—you had a lot on your mind. The DJing, and the move from Ottawa, and—”

“I played in Ottawa?” Mika asks, momentarily diverted. 

“Yeah.” Chris pours sauce over the noodles and brings a plate to the table. Setting it in front of Mika, he lingers briefly, bending to look into his eyes. “Light’s not hurting your head?”

“No.” Mika takes Chris’s hand and pulls gently until Chris gets the hint and folds to his knees in front of his chair. Mika looks down at him, searching the lines of his face for any hint of familiarity, and Chris folds his hands in his lap and lets him look.

Finally Mika sighs. “Can I—”

“Yes,” Chris says immediately.

Mika half-laughs. “You don’t know what I was going to say.”

Chris lifts a shoulder, lips quirking. “Doesn’t matter. Whatever you need, Zee.”

“In that case—” Mika cups Chris’s face with his good hand, stroking a thumb over the stubble with gentle sweeps. Then he leans forward, still holding Chris’s eyes. Chris seems to have been turned to stone. Mika touches his lips to Chris’s and feels the sharp intake of breath, but he doesn’t otherwise move. Emboldened, Mika presses forward, caressing Chris’s lower lip with his tongue.

_ Kiss me back, _ he thinks, sliding his hand around to the nape of Chris’s neck and deepening the kiss. _ Please. _

It takes another few seconds, but then Chris groans deep in his throat and goes up on his knees, bracing himself on Mika’s thighs and kissing him back with a wild desperation.

Mika hums happily and hangs on for the ride. Chris kisses like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do, arms snaking around Mika’s hips to tug him closer. 

Which makes it all the more confusing when he tears himself away and scrambles to his feet, wiping his mouth with a trembling hand. 

“I’m—I can’t,” he manages, taking a step back. 

“Why not?” Mika demands. His lips feel swollen, bruised, and he touches them with a finger, noting the way Chris’s eyes follow the movement. “You were into it, don’t try and tell me you weren’t.”

Chris’s throat bobs. “You’re—you don’t remember me.”

“So? We’re _ married, _ aren’t we? Or do you just not want to—”

“I _ do,” _ Chris interrupts, his eyes fierce. “When you remember. When _ you _ want to kiss me, not because you’re trying to trigger a memory or some shit.”

Mika scowls, and Chris’s face softens. He goes to his knees in front of Mika’s chair again, gazing up at him.

“I want to kiss you more than anything,” he whispers. “But it feels like… it feels like taking advantage of you.”

Mika reaches out, touches Chris’s mouth with his thumb. “I’m beginning to see why I fell in love with you,” he murmurs.

Somehow, that’s the wrong thing to say. Chris’s face shutters and he pulls away to stand.

“Eat your dinner,” he says, turning for the kitchen.

“Did I say something wrong?” Mika asks, bewildered.

The smile Chris gives him is forced. “You couldn’t,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”


	3. Chapter 3

There are at least thirty missed calls and messages on his phone, most from numbers he doesn’t recognize. Chris frowns but doesn’t bother going through them yet. They probably just want to get a statement from him about Mika’s injury. He dials Henrik’s number.

“Hello, Kreids,” Henrik says, sounding tired but patient.

“I have to tell him,” Chris blurts, standing barefoot in the hall outside his apartment.

“About that….” Henrik trails off.

“What?” Chris demands, tensing. 

“You haven’t checked the news, I take it?”

“Oh, _ fuck.” _ Chris scrambles back inside for his laptop. _ “Fuck! _ Henke, I’ll call you back.” Page after page scroll past, blurring into each other. 

_ CHRIS KREIDER AND MIKA ZIBANEJAD MARRIED? _

_ MIKA AND CHRIS FINALLY TIE THE KNOT. _

_ CHRIS AND MIKA—TRUE LOVE? _

_ FIRST GAY NHL PLAYERS, AND THEY’RE SUPERSTARS! _

Chris covers his mouth with a shaking hand as Mika shuffles into the living room, drawn by the noise.

“What happened?”

Chris shuts the laptop, more to protect Mika’s head than to hide the websites. “One of the nurses must have gone to the press,” he says, sitting down heavily on the futon. “It’s, uh… everyone knows.”

Mika eases himself onto the couch beside him. “Ah.”

Chris buries his face in his hands. How the fuck had it all gone so wrong? “I just wanted to be with you,” he says into his palms, voice muffled. “I just—they were taking you away and I couldn’t—”

“What are you talking about?” Mika asks gently, nudging his knee.

Chris swallows hard and drops his hands. “We’re not married.”

Silence falls as Chris dies a thousand deaths.

“What,” Mika says very quietly.

Chris doesn’t dare look at him. “The doctor said not too many shocks to your system, that telling you what year it was was bad enough, that I should ease you into—”

“We’re not married.” 

Chris stands up, takes a few steps away. “We’re, um, not even together?”

_ “What.” _

Chris knows that tone of voice. Mika doesn’t shout, doesn’t throw things or explode in fury when he gets angry. Instead, he gets quiet, dangerous like the rime of ice on a lake, freezing cold and ready to drop you into the depths to drown.

Chris doesn’t know what to _ do, _ how to make it right. He opens his mouth and Mika lifts a hand. Chris snaps his mouth shut again as Mika gets laboriously to his feet, arm around his ribs.

“We’re not together,” he repeats. “Am I in love with you?”

“No,” Chris says, the word choked and short.

“Are you in love with _ me?” _

Chris flinches. “I—no.” _ You’re lying to him, _ something whispers, and Chris shoves it down and away. _ Too much, too soon, and he doesn’t love me back. _ He dredges up a faint smile. “Except like a brother, of course. You’re my best friend.”

Mika is looking at him, eyes sharp and intent and flaying Chris open to peer at his soul, and Chris hunches his shoulders under the weight of it. “I’m s-sorry, Zee, I didn’t mean to—it just _ happened. _ The nurses wouldn’t let me back to see you, I was losing my mind, I thought you were dying and you didn’t have _ anyone _ with you, and one of the nurses just assumed, and I… I didn’t correct her. But then it kept going, and—I didn’t know how to stop it.”

“How long were you going to let me think we were together?” Mika’s voice is still so, so cold, and Chris shivers.

“I was going to tell you,” he says. “I wanted you to feel better first. To heal. I thought maybe if your memories came back, I wouldn’t _ have _ to tell you, that you’d just remember and then you’d understand why I said it.” He takes a step forward, although everything in Mika’s bearing warns him not to get too close. “You’re my best friend, Zee,” he repeats. “We tell each other everything. You’d—you’d have done the same for me, I know you would have. I didn’t know you had amnesia at the time, I swear I wasn’t trying to take advan—”

Mika holds up his hand again. “I need to be alone for a while.”

Chris swallows the cold lump of misery in his throat and nods. “I’ll… go see Brady and Filip.”

Mika says nothing as Chris gathers his keys and puts his shoes on, still standing in the middle of the living room. His slouchy sweater makes him look small, fragile somehow, and Chris aches to touch him.

Instead he clears his throat. “I’ll be back before eight. Please… eat something.”

Mika doesn’t even look at him.

Chris drags in air. “Bye,” he manages, and bolts.

Alone, Mika sits on the couch again. He still can’t handle being on his feet for long, and he can feel the exhaustion pulling at him with sticky fingers.

Chris lied to him. Chris let him think they were married. Mika puts his face in his hands and groans. He _ kissed _ him, he thinks, and can’t help the cringe of embarrassment. He’d thought he was kissing his husband, but—

A pulse of pain spikes through his head and he can’t help the whimper. It’s all too much. He needs to talk to someone but he doesn’t even know _ who. _ He doesn’t know anyone on the team. All his old teammates are in Sweden, or playing for different teams, and it’s not like he can use the phone anyway.

Actually—he pulls himself upright and limps into the bedroom. Chris had put Mika’s phone, keys, and wallet on the nightstand. Mika picks up the phone, carefully not looking at the screen, and holds the lock button down.

The phone beeps, indicating it’s listening, and Mika says, “Call Henrik.”

He climbs into the bed as the line rings.

“You shouldn’t be on the phone,” Henrik says in Swedish, and Mika closes his eyes at the pure relief of hearing his mother tongue.

“I didn’t look at the screen,” he replies. “I’m—I need to talk to someone.”

There’s a beat of silence. “Kreids told you.”

Mika doesn’t say anything, and Henrik sighs.

“I’m on my way.”

It takes about fifteen minutes before he’s knocking on the front door.

Mika drags himself out of bed and goes to answer it. Henrik tilts his head, examining him.

“You look like shit, kid,” he says cheerfully, and steps inside.

“Thanks,” Mika mutters, and shows him to the living room. 

“Where’s Chris?” Henrik asks as he settles himself in one of the overstuffed chairs.

Mika drapes himself carefully across the couch before answering. “Out.”

Henrik’s eyebrows go up. “What happened?”

“He _ lied _ to me,” Mika hisses. His head protests the vehemence of the words, and he winces.

“Did he?” Henrik says mildly. “Or did he do exactly what you’d have done if the situation was reversed?”

“How would I know?” Mika shoots back. “I don’t _ remember _ him. I don’t _ know _ him. _ Would _ I have done that?”

Henrik leans forward, suddenly sober. “Mika. You would die for him.”

Mika glances away. “I don’t know that.”

“And you don’t know _ me, _ at least not the me you’ve played with for the last three years, so it’s okay if you don’t believe me. I can’t show you game tape right now, not with your head so messed up, but when you can look at a screen, I want you to watch some. Watch how you light up around him. Watch how you touch him every chance you get. How he gravitates toward you. It’s all there, kid, I promise.” Henrik sighs. “Maybe he handled it badly, but I think you wouldn’t have been any better in his shoes.”

“I kissed him,” Mika says abruptly.

Henrik’s eyebrows climb his forehead again but he says nothing.

“I was trying—I wanted—he’s so handsome and he was right _ there _ and I thought… maybe if I… maybe I’d remember.”

“I guess it didn’t work?” Henrik sounds curious and faintly amused.

“Except where I got kissed within an inch of my life, no. It didn’t work,” Mika snaps, and Henrik laughs out loud.

“You two are so stupid. You’re made for each other.”

“Hey,” Mika protests, nettled.

Henrik just laughs again. “I want some tea. No, don’t get up, I’ll find it. Chris keeps some for you in his pantry. You stay there and rest.”

Mika puts his head back down on the cushion and thinks as he listens to Henrik rattling around in the kitchen, humming to himself. If they were as close as Henrik says, he can’t really fault Chris for rolling with the ‘married’ lie. Of course he hadn’t known it would get so out of hand—all he’d wanted was to be there for Mika.

He needs to talk to Chris. He’s fumbling for his phone when Henrik comes back.

“Don’t even think about it,” Henrik warns him, whisking it out of his grasp. He plants himself back in the chair with his tea and scrolls through the notifications with his other hand. “Ah,” he says. “Sit up. Try to look less like you’re dying.”

“I don’t want to,” Mika whines into the cushion.

“You need to record a video for Nikki, she’s worried about you.”

“Who’s—Nikki! My niece!”

Henrik breaks into a huge smile. “You see? You’re beginning to remember. Now sit up.”

Mika struggles upright and smooths his hair back, pushing the pain to the back of his mind. When Henrik holds up the camera and nods, Mika gives it a wide smile.

“Hello Nikki!” he says, still in Swedish. “I got bumped on the head but I’m okay, I promise! Uncle Chris—” _ Uncle Chris, _ he thinks, amazed, “—is taking good care of me. Tell your mama I’ll call her soon, I love you, and I’m fine.”

Henrik turns the phone around. “And so is Uncle Henrik,” he says, winking at the camera. He hits send on the video and puts the phone down out of reach.

“I want to call Chris,” Mika protests.

“I’ll do it,” Henrik says. 

Chris answers on the first ring, sounding miserable and worried. 

“Relax,” Henrik says. “Your _ husband _ is fine.”

Glaring hurts Mika’s head but it’s worth the pain. Henrik’s smile just widens.

“Come home,” he says. “He wants to talk to you but I won’t let him use the telephone.” There’s a beeping noise and Henrik blinks. “He hung up on me.”

Chris is back in record time, tumbling through the front door and into the living room. Henrik salutes him with his mug of tea and Mika pushes himself upright again. Chris looks terrible, his dark eyes haunted and mouth pulled down, shoulders slumped.

Mika pats the cushion beside him. “Come sit.”

“That’s my cue,” Henrik says, and stands. He waves off Chris’s lackluster effort to walk him to the door, giving Mika a smile as he goes by. “Don’t fuck it up,” he says in Swedish.

Mika doesn’t bother answering. When the door closes behind Henrik, Mika pats the cushion again.

“Chris,” he says.

Chris takes a hesitant step forward, then another, until he’s beside the couch and can sink down onto the edge, still poised as if for flight.

Mika sighs. “Stop looking like I’m going to yell at you.”

Chris hunches his shoulders, staring at his hands. “I deserve it.”

“No, you don’t.” That gets Chris’s attention—his eyes snap up and Mika reaches out, takes his hand and holds it. Chris appears to be holding his breath, fingers slack in Mika’s grasp. “Henrik told me how close we are,” Mika continues. “That I _ would _ have done the same for you.”

“I should have told you,” Chris says, almost inaudible.

“Well, you did,” Mika points out. Another spike of pain pulses through his temples and he flinches, swaying.

“You need more medication,” Chris says. “Hang on.” He’s up and gone before Mika can protest, back in minutes with pills and a glass of water. Mika takes them gratefully. “You should rest,” Chris says. “You’re nowhere near well enough to be up so much.” He helps Mika to his feet, staying close as Mika makes his way to the bedroom.

“I don’t think I can sleep,” Mika admits as he slides under the sheet, which Chris pulls up over his shoulders. “I’ve slept so much, I just—”

“Okay, I have an idea.” Chris leaves the bedroom but he’s back almost immediately, a Kindle in one hand and a guitar in the other. “Which would you like?”

“I can’t read right now,” Mika points out.

“Which is why I’m going to read _ to _ you,” Chris says. He settles on the other side of the enormous bed and waits expectantly. “Which will it be?”

“I’d love you to read to me but I don’t think I can concentrate enough,” Mika admits, rolling over carefully to face him.

Chris smiles, and Mika is definitely a fan, the way his dimples flash and his face crinkles with amusement.

“Music it is,” he says, and strikes a soft opening chord. 

Mika wants to keep his eyes open and watch him, appreciate the delicate way Chris changes keys, his big hands deft and sure on the strings, but exhaustion is dragging him down. He doesn’t recognize the song Chris is playing, so he closes his eyes and lets the music wash over and through him. 

He’s almost asleep when Chris’s phone rings in the living room and Chris swears under his breath.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Be right back.”

He’s not right back. Mika listens to his voice, too low to make out the words but the agitation clear in his tone, and after awhile, he carefully levers himself out of the bed and makes for the living room. 

Chris is standing in the middle of the room, eyes closed and free hand pinching the bridge of his nose.

“No,” he says, and it sounds like he’s said it multiple times. _ “No, _ I’m not doing it. I’m not asking _ Mika _to do it. Goddammit, how can you even—”

“Ask me to do what?” Mika asks, and Chris’s eyes fly open.

“Zee, you don’t—go back to bed.”

Mika holds his ground, lifting his chin. “If this involves me, I have the right to know what _ it _ is.”

Chris groans. “Gorton, I’ll call you back. You should sit.” This last to Mika, who would roll his eyes except that will hurt his head, and besides, his legs _ are _ a little shaky, so he sits on the couch and waits for Chris to continue.

When he doesn’t, still standing in the middle of the room, Mika clears his throat. “Who’s Gorton?”

“He’s our GM,” Chris says. He looks wretched, hovering there like he’s not sure he’s welcome, and Mika sighs.

“Sit down already.”

Chris obeys, shifting his weight and still saying nothing.

“And what did Gorton want?” Mika prompts. 

“He wants—he saw the newspapers.” Chris swallows hard. “He wanted to know if it was true.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That it wasn’t,” Chris says instantly. “I wouldn’t—Zee, I wouldn’t—”

Mika touches his knee and Chris goes still. “I know. So what did he ask you?”

“He wants us to—” Chris pinches the bridge of his nose again. “He wants us to pretend to stay married until the season is over.”

Mika can feel his eyebrows climb. “Why?”

“First of all, he says it looks bad, me lying to get in to see you. Some are calling it abuse of my position. Obviously that's pretty low on the scale, as things go, but—" He hesitates. "Overall, he says it’s been good for the team, that public reception is positive, and that they can use it for the Hockey is For Everyone initiative.”

“Makes sense,” Mika says thoughtfully. “People are really okay with it?”

“Well, the occasional homophobe,” Chris says. “But yeah, for the most part, people seem to be… supportive. They think it's romantic.”

“Huh.” Mika considers. “So what’s the play?”

“You can’t be serious,” Chris says.

“I just want to know what he’s thinking!” Mika snaps. “I’m not going to say yes _ or _ no unless I have all the information.”

“Okay, yeah.” Chris takes a breath. “His idea was that we keep up the story, play up the romance of getting married secretly, me letting it slip in the hospital. When we go out, we’d—” He falters. “We’d have to pretend to be in love. Holding hands. Maybe even kissing.”

Mika nods, unsurprised, and makes a gesture for him to continue.

“Why aren’t you more freaked out?” Chris demands. His eyes look a little wild, and Mika has to stifle the urge to comfort him.

“It’s not like we’d _ actually _ be married,” he says gently. “What’s Gorton’s plan again? We ‘break up’ over the summer?”

Chris nods, mouth drooping. “By then, people would be used to it. He says it’ll help pave the way for gay players who want to have real relationships while playing.” He pauses. “His son is gay. I think… it’s personal.”

“Well, we have to, don’t we?” Mika says firmly. 

Chris doesn’t look at him, plucking at the seam of his pants. 

“This is important,” Mika says, keeping his voice gentle.

Chris nods. “I have to—you should lie down again.”

“Will you play for me?” Mika counters.

“If you want,” Chris says. He doesn’t sound happy, but he musters a smile when he meets Mika’s eyes. He follows Mika into the bedroom and settles on the edge of the bed as Mika gets comfortable.

“I remembered Nikki,” Mika mumbles, wriggling around until he’s satisfied.

“Yeah?” Chris says. “That’s good, Zee. That’s great. It’ll start coming back now, you’ll see.”

Mika hums acknowledgment. “This will be good,” he says, closing his eyes and pressing his face into the soft pillow, and he’s not talking about the amnesia.

“Yeah,” Chris says, and begins to play.

He waits until Mika is asleep before setting his guitar aside. He takes a minute to look his fill at Mika’s face, memorizing his features yet again, and then he tiptoes from the room.

Standing in the kitchen, he clenches his fists, pressing them to his temples. He can’t _ do _ this. He can’t pretend to be married to Mika. Not when every touch is agony, knowing Mika doesn’t feel the same way.

Chris bends over, resting his forehead against the cool marble of the countertop. What choice does he have, he wonders. People need this, the representation, confirmation that even NHL superstars were gay and could have fulfilling careers.

He groans aloud. How is he supposed to do it, though? Touching Mika in public, letting the love he feels shine through—that part he can do. Pretending it means nothing, in private—that’s going to be a lot more difficult.

But does he _ really _ have a choice? He thinks back to his fourteen-year-old self, coming to terms with being gay and still determined to play in the NHL. What would it have meant to him if he’d had someone to look up to, someone who could have shown him all his dreams were possible and he didn’t have to compromise?

“Fuck,” he says. _ “Fuck.” _ He kicks the cabinet and then hops on his good foot, holding his abused toe. “Ow, ow, motherfucking _ ow.” _

He has to do it. 

“Kreids?” Mika sounds sleepy and confused, and Chris whirls to face him.

“Would you _ stop _ getting out of bed?” he demands. 

Mika’s lips twitch. “You sounded upset.”

“Sorry,” Chris says. He takes a step closer. “How are you feeling?”

“Hungry, bored,” Mika says, lifting a shoulder,

“Well, come sit down, I’ll reheat the stroganoff,” Chris says.

Mika obeys, wincing. “We never rewrapped my ribs.”

“Shit, I need to do that,” Chris says. He shoves a plate in the microwave and rounds the counter to scoop up the bandages as Mika skins the sweater off and lifts his arms. Chris holds his breath as he wraps Mika’s ribs in careful swathes. Mika’s skin is silken soft under his fingers, dotted with the occasional mole, and Chris wants to bend forward, press his mouth to the crook of Mika’s elbow, _ taste _ him—

Mika picks up the sweater with a stifled grunt of pain and tugs it on over his head. Chris takes a deep breath and stands as the microwave beeps.

He watches Mika eat, fist propped on his chin as Mika shovels noodles into his mouth.

“It’s not Swedish meatballs,” Chris says, amused in spite of himself. “But I guess it’ll do.”

“’S good,” Mika mumbles through his mouthful. “Didn’t know you could cook.”

“I can’t, not that much,” Chris admits. “But your mom gave me the recipe for this and it was pretty easy.”

“So are we doing interviews and stuff?” Mika asks.

Chris grimaces. “Ugh, yeah. Gorton has a list, apparently.”

Mika tilts his head and smiles at him, and Chris is briefly distracted by the way his eyes crinkle and his mouth curves. _ Focus, _ he tells himself sternly.

“You don’t like interviews?” Mika asks.

“They’re boring as fuck,” Chris says promptly. “But they’re always better with you there.”

“Are we still working the amnesia angle?”

Chris considers this. “Maybe not the last nine years thing,” he finally says. “But that you’re still having trouble remembering some stuff—that’ll cover any gaps, I think.”

Mika nods.

“How’s your head?”

“Still hurts,” Mika admits, and Chris is on his feet immediately, striding for a glass of water and the pills. “You’re good to me,” Mika says softly as Chris hands him both.

Chris flounders. “It’s easy to be good to you,” he says lamely, and Mika’s lips quirk.

“When’s the first interview?”

“Day after tomorrow, morning of the game, if you’re feeling up to it.”

Mika nods. “Might as well get started.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confession: I have no idea if Gorton A: has a son and if so B: he's gay and I literally don't care enough to google him. Just go with it and we'll pretend I did my due diligence.


	4. Chapter 4

They sit side by side on the small loveseat, their thighs pressed together. Chris is sweating under the lights trained on them but Mika looks cool and collected. Techs bustle around them and someone leans over to fix Chris’s microphone, which has already gotten twisted up. Mika catches Chris’s eye and he smiles.

“It’s just an interview,” he murmurs, but he takes Chris’s hand, drawing it into his lap and rubbing his knuckles softly.

“Aw,” the technician says as she straightens. “You guys are adorable.”

Mika’s smile widens but he says nothing, tightening his grip when Chris tries to pull away. 

Chris surrenders to the inevitable as their host settles opposite them, all flashing white teeth and perfect hair. She introduces herself as Danielle and gives them both a huge smile.

“I don’t like to talk before the cameras roll,” she says. “I find I get more genuine reactions that way.” She makes a motion and the red light on the camera nearest Chris flicks on. Chris stiffens in spite of himself, and Mika squeezes his hand again.

“Breathe,” he murmurs.

“I’m Danielle St. Cloud and I’m here with Mika Zibanejad and Chris Kreider,” Danielle says brightly. “The news story taking the world by storm—these two lovebirds are  _ married!” _

The camera rolls closer as the operator zooms in, and Chris forces a smile.

Danielle leans forward. “Mika, Chris. How did you keep it secret for so long?”

Mika’s shrug looks easy, relaxed. “People don’t really look too closely if you don’t give them a reason to,” he says. He’s still holding Chris’s hand. 

“And when exactly did this happen?” Danielle asks.

“Ah well, for that, you’ll have to ask Chris,” Mika says. He laughs out loud when Chris gives him a filthy look. “Sorry, babe, but you know how my memory is right now.”

Chris scowls, but he keeps a tight grip on Mika’s hand as he focuses on Danielle. What had they decided on? “It was Christmas last year,” he says. “We spent it together and we just thought… why not?”

Danielle clasps her hands together. “Christmas wedding, how romantic. Was your family there?”

“Ah… unfortunately not,” Chris says. “We were hoping to have a big party with everyone invited when we were able to come out, but we’d thought that wouldn’t happen until at least closer to the end of our careers.” 

“So how do you think this will affect your playing together?” Danielle asks.

Mika’s grip tightens, just briefly, but his voice is even when he responds. “We’ve been married a year, Danielle, if anything was going to affect it, I think it would have happened by now.” He smiles, and Chris  _ knows _ that smile, inside and out. That’s the smile he gives reporters who’ve asked a stupid question. It’s patient, and almost pitying, and Chris thinks he’s the only who sees the anger lurking beneath. Mika glances at Chris and arches a brow. “Have  _ you _ noticed any change in our style of play, babe?”

Bantering with Mika, even with pet names involved, is still the easiest thing in the world for Chris. He grins at him.

“I’d like you to pass the puck a little more, but we can’t have everything.”

“Well, I’d like  _ you _ to wash the dishes occasionally,” Mika shoots back, and his smile is real now, hand warm in Chris’s.

Danielle coughs delicately and they turn their attention back to her. “What about your team?” she asks. “Any problems there?”

Chris pretends to consider. “Well, Shatty always leaves his jock on the floor, and Brady’s taste in music is absolutely horrible—”

“Not what I meant,” Danielle interrupts, and her teeth show through her tight smile.

Chris gives her the smile right back, Mika’s hand tightening warningly on his. “I know what you meant, Danielle. The team’s fine. They all came to see Mika in the hospital. We’re a family, and they accept us.”

“No concerns of nepotism or playing favorites?”

“Neither of us wear the C,” Chris points out. “Where would the nepotism be happening?”

Danielle shrugs, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I don’t know, it’s just a new situation—players on the same team married. I’m sure we’re all trying to figure out the dynamics of it.”

“There are no dynamics,” Mika says quietly. “Chris and I fell in love. We got married. We play hockey together. That’s it.”

“Well, but surely when one of you has had a bad day, it’s hard on the other,” Danielle presses, leaning forward. “What happens if Mika misses a pass, or Chris isn’t where he should be? And on the flip side, what if it gives you an unfair advantage on the ice, this sort of bond?”

Chris stares at her. “Marriage doesn’t magically bestow telepathy, Danielle.”

“Of course not, but the two of you living together, being so close—does it give you more insight into each other’s style of play?”

Mika takes a measured breath. “Rookies live with veterans all the time. Players room together constantly, become best friends on  _ and _ off the ice. The only difference with Chris and me is that sometimes I kiss him, too.”

Danielle looks skeptical. “Does a bad day follow you home?”

“No,” Mika says flatly. “Any problems from the rink, from games—all of that is put aside at the door. When we’re home it’s just us. Are we about done?”

Danielle blinks at his abruptness but nods. “We’ll edit that out,” she tells a tech, and gives them another bright smile. “Mika, Chris, it’s been a pleasure talking to you both today. Thank you for coming forward and telling your story.”

“If we can help even one kid wanting to play and feeling like there’s not a place for them, then I think we’ll have done enough,” Chris says honestly.

They make their goodbyes quickly and allow the assistants to take the mics off, Chris fidgeting as they fuss around them. Mika’s calm beside him, unruffled, but Chris feels almost frantic with frustrated energy, a buzz beneath his skin.

He manages to hold it in until they’re out of the studio, walking down the beige, impersonal hallway toward the street, but it floods him in a shocking wave suddenly and he punches the wall hard.

_ “Chris.” _ Mika’s right there, hand on his arm, pulling at his wrist until Chris opens his hand and flexes his fingers.

“Ow,” he says.

“You idiot,” Mika tells him, examining his knuckles. “Was it that bad?”

Chris stares at him incredulously. “Were you in the same interview?”

“The one where she made assumptions, implied abuse of privilege, and suggested that playing together gives us an unfair advantage?” Mika says, and his eyes are hard and cold. “Yeah, I was there.” He glances over Chris’s shoulder, eyes narrowing, and then his hand is on the back of Chris’s neck and he’s pulling him into a kiss.

Chris’s brain blanks out and he lets it happen, unable to process anything except the feel of Mika’s body against his, the fingers rubbing the base of his skull, other hand still wrapped loosely around his wrist. The kiss is soft and close-mouthed, but Chris  _ wants— _

He almost makes a noise when Mika pulls away. 

“Sorry,” Mika whispers. “We have witnesses.”

Chris bows his head, presses their foreheads together, and works to contain his breathing. “Did they see me punch the wall?”

“No, you’re good,” Mika murmurs. His breath is warm against Chris’s mouth. “But we should go, someone’s gonna pull out a camera any—shit, too late.”

Chris groans and straightens. He doesn’t look behind them, heading for the street with Mika by his side.

“That sucked,” he says when they’re safely on the sidewalk, and Mika makes an affirmative noise. Chris glances at him. “How are you feeling?”

Mika manages a smile but it’s tight with pain. “Need to go home,” he admits.

Chris flags the first taxi he sees and bundles Mika gently into the back, sliding in after him. Mika tilts until his head is resting on Chris’s shoulder, hair soft against his cheek.

“They won’t all be like that,” he says quietly. 

“I’ll make sure of it,” Chris mutters, digging his phone from his pocket. He texts his agent one-handed, but he thinks he gets his point across, judging from the speed of response. He reads it and grunts, somewhat mollified.

“What?” Mika asks, sounding half-asleep.

“Matt says he didn’t realize it would be that bad and he’ll vet the next interviews more thoroughly, make sure they’re sympathetic.”

“S’good,” Mika slurs.

Chris pats his knee. “Don’t fall asleep on me yet. Still gotta get you inside.”

Mika mutters something in Swedish and rubs his face against Chris’s shirt. Chris glances up and catches the taxi driver’s eye. He shrugs, giving him a what-can-you-do smile, and the driver snorts a laugh and pulls into the courtyard.

Upstairs, Chris shepherds Mika through the apartment and into the bed. He hands him his pills, takes the water when Mika is done, then pulls the blanket up over his shoulders.

“Tired of this,” Mika mumbles, eyes drooping.

Chris physically can’t stop himself from smoothing his hair back. “I know,” he says quietly. “But it’ll be better soon.”

They have a home game that night. Mika can’t go, can’t even watch, and he makes his displeasure known as Chris gets ready to leave, sitting on the couch with his arms folded and a scowl on his face.

“You’re adorable,” Chris says without thinking, and slaps a hand over his mouth immediately as Mika’s eyes go wide. “Sorry,  _ sorry. _ Inappropriate. Didn’t mean to—I—”

“Relax,” Mika interrupts. “It’s good practice, hearing it. We need to sell this in public, don’t we?”

Chris nods, pulling on his coat and shifting his weight. “You sure you’ll be okay?”

Mika pats the small transistor radio Chris had dug out of storage for him. “I’ll be fine. I’ll listen to everything and you can fill me in on whatever I miss.”

Chris wants to kiss him. He clears his throat. “See you after,” he says, and bolts for the door.

Mika is bored. He  _ hates _ this, being stuck in the apartment, not being able to even turn on the television to watch the game. He’s stuck with this interminable headache and the static from the radio as he waits for the pregame festivities to die down and the announcers to stop babbling about stats and projections.

He stretches out on the couch, grunting as his ribs protest. At least his wrist is better, he thinks wryly. One small step at a time. 

As comfortably situated as he’s going to get, Mika pulls the radio closer and drapes an elbow over his eyes to block the light, settling in to listen.

Halfway through, he’s ready to throw something, anything, if it will keep Chris out of the penalty box. Two for hooking, then another two for tripping, and as if that wasn’t enough, he pulls a double minor for fighting.

Mika hurls a cushion as the announcer runs through the laundry list of Chris’s sins.

“Of course,” the announcer says, his voice dry, “this all could just be pressure that’s built up, since as we all know by now, Chris’s husband and center, Mika Zibanejad, is at home recovering with an upper body injury. Pretty nasty concussion, apparently.”

“So you think he’s too worried about Zibanejad to keep his head on straight?” the other announcer asks, and Mika freezes.

“Well,” the first says, clearly hedging. “I’m not down there, I can’t really say, can I? But it makes you wonder.”

“Oh, you son of a bitch,” Mika says softly, and turns the radio off.

He’s in the bedroom when Chris finally gets home, unable to sleep and staring at the ceiling as he fumes, alternately furious with announcers in general and Chris in particular.

Chris knocks softly on the door, a brief rap of knuckles, and puts his head in. “Hey, I’m home. How are you doing?”

Mika flicks on the lamp and stares at him for a long minute. Chris looks tired and sheepish, like he knows what he’s done and he’s ready for the tongue-lashing. There’s a cut on his cheek and a bruise forming, and Mika swings his legs out of bed.

“Let me see,” he says, and Chris sits on the edge of the mattress, folding his hands in his lap and tipping his chin up.

Mika looks at the injury—it was a clean hit, clearly, and it’ll be healed in a few days—and then spends another few minutes looking at Chris’s face. He tracks the mobile eyebrows, the slope of his long nose, the high cheekbones and stark contrast of pale skin against dark hair. He doesn’t  _ remember _ this man, and he finds he badly wants to, more and more every day.

Chris shifts his weight. “Um.”

“Sorry.” Mika lets go of his chin and steps back. “You wanna tell me what you were thinking?”

Chris hunches his shoulders. “Not really.”

“Tough,” Mika says. “What the  _ fuck _ were you thinking? Do you usually play like that?”

“No!” Chris protests, stung into looking up. “No, I—I mean, I run into goalies sometimes but I don’t usually take that many penalties, I swear.”

“You shouldn’t run into goalies,” Mika says automatically. “That’s a good way to get jumped by the opposing team.”

“It’s happened,” Chris allows, lips quirking wryly, and Mika almost smiles back at him. Then he remembers what the announcers had said.

“They blamed us,” he says abruptly, and Chris blinks.

“What? Who?”

“The announcers. Not in so many words, but they implied heavily that because I’m home with an injury, you can’t focus or play properly.”

“Fuck,” Chris mutters, rubbing his scalp.

“This—” Mika gestures broadly to encompass the entire evening. “Can’t happen again, Chris. Do you get that? Not if we’re doing this for the initiative. Do you really want people pointing at us, using us as an example of a reason to  _ not _ get married because we won’t be able to play effectively? That’s bad publicity, Kreids, and no GM in the world is going to let that happen.”

“I know,” Chris says. He flops backward onto the bed, arms draped across the mattress. “I’m sorry,” he tells the ceiling. “I was just—it was stupid.”

“Well yeah.” Mika sits down cross-legged beside him. Chris’s suit is rumpled, the shirt’s top buttons undone and tie missing. He still looks unfairly good, and Mika wants to peel him out of his clothes, take him apart with his lips and tongue. The impulse startles him and he stands abruptly. “Need to piss,” he says, and escapes into the bathroom. 

When he comes out, Chris is dressed in soft pants and a faded Rangers shirt. He’s looking in the closet for something, coming up with it triumphantly as Mika steps into the room. 

Chris holds up a pillow. “That couch hurts my back,” he says. “This’ll help.”

“Or we could share the bed,” Mika says, and Chris’s eyes go almost comically wide. 

“Zee, you don’t—it’s okay—”

Mika ignores him and turns to climb back under the covers. He’s getting the hang of Chris, he thinks. “If we’ve been friends as long as you say, then it has to have happened at least once.”

Chris takes a shocked breath. “What does?”

“Us sharing a bed,” Mika says. He squirms into a position where his ribs aren’t complaining, and makes an impatient hand flap in Chris’s direction. “Come on already, brush your teeth and get in here so you can tell me about it.”

Chris stares at him for a long moment but finally he nods, sharp and jerky, and heads for the bathroom. 

When he comes back, Mika’s eyes are closed but he pulls back the covers. He waits as Chris gets comfortable and then turns off the light. 

“So tell me,” he murmurs. 

Chris is lying utterly still, several feet away in the ridiculously large bed, but he blows out a breath and turns on his side. “Start of the season, in Denver. The hotel was doing renovations and we had to double up. Ended up in a room with a single king, and you complained to everyone who’d listen the next day that I kicked. I told everyone you snored, of course.”

He sounds fond and amused, and Mika hides his satisfaction. He’s definitely getting the hang of Chris, he thinks. He falls asleep to the sound of his voice, warm and gentle. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Half the move is complete - we're out of our old apartment, in the temporary house being loaned to us while we wait for the new place to be ready. Unfortunately, the AC is fucked at the temp house, so my daughter and I are currently hiding at the library and wishing death upon Texas summers.
> 
> I also don't have wifi at the temp house, so once I leave here I won't be able to check in. Comments to come back to are more than welcomed! :D


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY GUYS I ATEN'T DEAD
> 
> I'm working from home and my hours have been reduced slightly, but I'm so blessed to work for a great company who's really taking care of us, so there's no worries about losing my job despite everything that's going on.
> 
> This also means more time for writing, which means time to dive back into unfinished stuff! Please enjoy dumb boys pining at each other!

Chris believes in being honest with himself, to the best of his ability. So when he wakes up to Mika sound asleep with three feet of room between them, Chris is man enough to admit he’s disappointed. He lies quietly, watching Mika’s face as he sleeps, and wishes he could touch him. 

Mika stretches, yawns, and blinks his eyes blearily open. His mouth curves softly when he sees Chris lying beside him. 

“You didn’t kick,” he says, voice graveled with sleep. 

“And you didn’t snore,” Chris says, returning his smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Head hurts,” Mika admits. “What do you have planned today?”

Chris sits up and stretches, yawning. Mika’s watching him when he looks back, nothing but friendly curiosity on his face.

“Practice this morning after video review. I imagine I’ll get a tongue-lashing from Quinn for how I played, too, that’ll be fun.”

Mika pushes himself upright, grimacing. “You’re not—you won’t do that again, right?”

“No,” Chris says, and twists to face him. “You were right. It’s stupid and reckless and completely opposite what we’re trying to do here. Anyway, after practice, we have another interview before the team leaves for the road trip. Are you up to it?”

Mika’s grimace turns into an outright scowl but he nods. 

Chris wants to smooth away the frown, kiss him into smiling again. He clears his throat and slides out of bed. “Hungry?”

He makes scrambled eggs and sausage and toast, burning the edges only a little bit as Mika sits at the table and slowly, carefully skins out of his shirt so he can unwind the bandages. Chris doesn’t look at the smooth brown skin that’s bared and he doesn’t offer to help. 

Mika mutters something under his breath and prods his ribs.

“I feel better,” he says, looking up.

“You still have to wrap them,” Chris says, flipping the sausage, and hides the smile at Mika’s glower. “I had no idea you’d be such a pissy patient,” he teases.

Mika rolls his eyes. “I’m not  _ pissy. _ There’s just no point in this.”

“Cough and then tell me that,” Chris retorts.

Mika doesn’t bother to dignify that with a response.

They eat breakfast in companionable silence. Mika doesn’t seem to notice the burnt toast, eating in quick bites with his unbruised cheek braced on one fist. When they’re done, he gathers the bandages and begins the laborious process of rewrapping his ribs as Chris clears the table and sets dishes to soak.

It’s quiet, homey, and entirely too close to what Chris has dreamed of for years. The only thing that would make it better is if he could go over to where Mika is sitting, crouch on his heels between Mika’s knees and draw him into a kiss.

Now that he knows what Mika tastes like, how he kisses, the daydreams are even worse. Chris can’t stop replaying the tiny noises Mika made, the way he sighed against Chris’s mouth and rested the palm of his hand on Chris’s chest.

Mika clears his throat and Chris jumps, dropping the dish in his hand. There’s amusement in Mika’s eyes when Chris looks up.

“Maybe I’m the one who should be looking after you,” he suggests.

Chris plunges a hand into the soapy dishwater to find the plate, avoiding his gaze. “Just woolgathering.”

He gives Mika his pills and settles him on the couch with a drink and a small plate of snacks within easy reach before getting dressed to leave. Mika watches him, one hand tucked under his cheek, when Chris comes back in the room and sits to pull on his shoes.

“I’ll be back as soon as practice is over,” he says.

Mika hums acknowledgment, eyes drooping. The morning sun strikes his hair, turning the tips burnished bronze. “Gonna nap. Don’t let Quinn bully you.” His eyelids slip closed and Chris tiptoes from the apartment, pulling the door shut with a quiet click.

Quinn has a lot to say about Chris’s performance the night before, most of it at full volume. Chris nods along dutifully, thinking about the picture Mika had made curled up under the blanket from the back of Chris’s couch.

Snapping fingers under his nose jolt him back to awareness. Quinn is glaring at him.

“Did you hear a word I just said?”

Chris thinks back. “Something about self-control and bag skates?”

Quinn sighs. “Among other things. Figure your shit out. Now go home to your boyfriend, you’re useless to me like this.”

“As far as the world knows, he’s my husband,” Chris points out, and ducks the pencil Quinn hurls at his head on the way out the door.

Mika is still asleep when he gets home. Chris crouches by the couch, watching his soft breathing, the way his dark lashes lie on his cheeks, his mouth soft with sleep. After a minute he sighs internally and touches Mika’s hand.

Mika wakes slowly, eyelids fluttering open in stages. His lips curve when he sees Chris. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice burred with sleep, and touches Chris’s face.

“Um. Hey,” Chris manages, holding very still. “How was your nap?”

Mika rolls gingerly onto his back and stretches, arms up over his head. “Was good,” he says. “How was practice?”

“Oh, you know.” Chris rocks to his feet. “Coach yelled a lot. I scored on Lundy a few times—I think he was distracted.”

“Nice,” Mika says. He pushes himself upright, scowling at the pain, and Chris holds out a hand without thinking. Mika accepts it and Chris hauls him gently to his feet.

Standing, they’re toe-to-toe. Mika sways into Chris’s body and Chris steadies him with a careful hand on his hip.

“Okay?” he says, only a little breathless.

In reply, Mika puts his head down on Chris’s shoulder and mutters something in Swedish.

Chris closes his eyes. He can’t resist pressing his cheek to Mika’s hair, but after a minute he steps back, summoning a smile when Mika looks up.

“Lunch,” he says, and Mika follows him into the kitchen.

They’re developing a routine, Chris thinks somewhat despairingly. He makes the food while Mika sits at the table and watches, or rests his cheek on one hand. They eat together in comfortable silence, feet knocking together occasionally under the table, and Chris wants it to be real so badly he thinks he’ll choke on it.

“When’s the next interview?” Mika asks.

Chris checks the time. “An hour. You sure you’re feeling up to it?”

Mika hums and takes a bite of salmon. “I’m already bored,” he admits. “Can’t read, can’t watch TV, can’t make music—” He breaks off, brow knitting. “Do I still make music?”

“Yeah,” Chris says, unable to help his smile. “Really good music, too. You DJ every chance you get.”

Mika relaxes visibly. “Good. Fuck, I need to shower.”

“Need help?” Chris offers, and then wishes the words unsaid as Mika’s eyes widen.

“I—no. I think I can manage. But thank you?”

“Sure, yeah. Okay. No problem. I’m gonna just… wash the dishes.” Chris stands to clear the table, kicking himself mentally.  _ ‘Need help?’ _ You  _ need help, you fucking idiot. _ He doesn’t look up as Mika stands and shuffles slowly from the kitchen. 

This interview goes much more smoothly. The reporter has clearly been briefed—he sticks to softball questions easily answered, giving them plenty of space and time to craft their replies. Mika laces his fingers with Chris’s as the cameras start rolling, and Chris does his best to look like he does it all the time. 

He’s not sure he manages it, stiff and sweaty under the lights, but Mika’s smile is soft when he glances at him, and Chris can’t help smiling back.

“Can I just say,” the reporter—Mark, Chris thinks, or maybe Mike—says, “that it’s very refreshing to see such wholesome displays of affection between men?”

“Well,” Mika says dryly, “isn’t that what love looks like?”

“Not always,” Mark/Mike says, and he sounds sad. But the next moment he’s smiling again, and thanking them for coming in, and shaking hands with them.

They manage to get out of the building without any wall-punching this time, although Chris notes mournfully that also means no kissing.

Then it’s home so Chris can pack for the road trip. He watches Mika as he shoves clothes in the bag, stretched out on top of Chris’s comforter, fingers laced over his stomach. 

“You sure you’ll be okay without me?” Chris asks, coming out of the bathroom with his toiletries bag.

“I’ll be fine,” Mika says. “You won’t be gone long.” He props himself on one elbow, searching Chris’s face. “You’ll play smarter, right? Remember why we’re doing this.”

Chris sets the toiletries bag in his duffel. “I will, I promise. As long as you promise to take care of yourself while I can’t.”

Mika’s smile is soft and it makes Chris’s chest tight. “I’ll do my best.”

Chris is a ball of nerves on the airplane, knee bouncing relentlessly as he chews his nails and wonders how Mika’s doing. He reaches for his phone to text him half a dozen times before remembering Mika can’t look at the screen, swearing at himself, and slumping deeper in the seat.

A big hand appears out of nowhere and shoves down hard on his knee. Chris goes still, more out of surprise than anything, as Henrik scowls at him from across the aisle.

“Knock it off or you’re riding home in the overhead compartment.”

“Like to see you try,” Chris mutters, but he crosses his arms and glowers at the bulkhead, holding his knee still with a mighty effort.

Henrik sighs. “He’s fine. He’ll  _ be _ fine.”

“He has a concussion and broken ribs and I left him by himself,” Chris snaps. “He wouldn’t even let me hire someone.”

“First of all, he’s a grown man,” Henrik says. “Second, when are you going to tell him how you feel?”

“Precisely never.” Chris glares at him but Henrik doesn’t take the hint.

“How is that fair to either of you?”

“Leave it, Henke,” Chris warns.

“I’m just saying,” Henrik persists. 

“Well, stop,” Chris says through his teeth. “Bad enough he has to pretend he’s married to me. I’m not putting that on him too.” He blows out an explosive breath. “He’s had plenty of chances the last five years. If he doesn’t return it by now, then there’s no  _ point _ in saying something, because then I’ll just lose him forever. This—” He gestures vaguely. “It’s better than nothing. So just… let go of this fantasy and leave me alone, yeah?”

Henrik holds up both hands. “I hate to see you doing this to yourself,” he says softly, but he settles back in his seat and doesn’t push the point.

Chris calls Mika after the game, before he’s set his bag down in the hotel room. It rings three times and Chris is starting to get worried when it clicks and he hears Mika’s voice, slightly breathless.

“I’m here, hey, sorry.”

“Are you okay?” Chris demands.

“I’m fine.” There’s a rustling noise and Mika grunts softly.

“Zee? What are you doing?”

“Getting into bed,” Mika says. “How was the game?”

Chris brushes this off. “It was fine, it was a game. Shesty’s really stepping up. How are you? What took you so long to answer?”

“Are you always this pushy?” Mika asks. He sounds faintly irritated, and Chris takes a deep breath, shoving the worry down.

“Sorry. I—sorry. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Mika sighs. “I’m fine. Sorry. I don’t like being….”

“Babied?” Chris asks, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Broken,” Mika says. He sounds tired now, and Chris’s heart twists.

“You’re not. You’ll be better soon.”

“Yeah. So seriously, how was the game? Did the reporters badger you about me again?”

Chris kicks his shoes off and flops backward onto the bed, staring up at the beige ceiling. “No more than usual. They wanted to know how you’re doing, how we kept us a secret for so long. The same old stuff.”

“Come home,” Mika says. He sounds drowsy.

“Tomorrow night. Just a little longer.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How's everyone? Staying inside? Washing your hands?
> 
> Me, I got a dog and avoided being furloughed (somehow), haven't been able to write for two weeks and then wrote 2K in a caffeine-induced blur. I hope everyone is hanging in there. Please enjoy some more pining and boys being _extremely_ dumb.

He lets himself into the house quietly, doing his best to get his bags in the door without waking Mika. It’s late, the second game of the trip going to overtime and then shootouts, and then the plane’s departure was delayed for over an hour before they could finally take off. Chris is exhausted, thinking longingly of his bed, but overriding that is the urge to make sure Mika’s okay.

He takes his shoes off and pads down the hall in his socks, pulling his tie off as he goes. Rounding the corner, he runs face-first into Mika, coming from the bedroom. Mika stumbles and flinches, and Chris catches him on instinct, steadying him. 

“Sorry,” he says breathlessly. “I didn’t—I thought you’d be asleep.”

Mika pulls away and knuckles his eyes. “I was. Heard you come in.”

Chris takes a step closer and looks him up and down. “How are you feeling?”

“Bored,” Mika says. His voice is rough with sleep and narcotics, and he sways into Chris’s warmth as if unaware he’s doing it, lowering his head to press his face into the crook of his neck. “I don’t know you,” he mumbles, one hand coming up to grip Chris’s T-shirt. “Why… why ‘m I so comf’table with you?”

“I guess part of you  _ does _ know me,” Chris says, rubbing his back and swallowing back the now-familiar rush of  _ why can’t this be real. _ “It’s late, let’s get you back in bed.”

Mika goes without much protest, curling up on his side and watching as Chris moves around the room, gathering clothes to sleep in and then ducking into the bathroom to change.

He’s almost asleep when Chris comes back out, eyes closed and breathing even, and Chris dithers a minute. Couch or bed?

Mika holds out a hand and Chris gives into temptation, sliding between the covers and squirming to get comfortable. Mika rolls over, wincing, until they’re face-to-face.

“I missed you,” he says quietly. “I don’t even know your middle name but I hated that you weren’t here.”

There’s a rock in Chris’s throat. Breathing is difficult. He traces the slope of Mika’s hooded eyes, the wide mouth that smiles so easily. He wants to kiss him again, roll him onto his back and devour his mouth until Mika is begging for him.

“It’s James,” he finally says, and Mika smiles as his eyes slide shut again.

“James,” he repeats. “Suits you.”

He falls asleep almost immediately but Chris lies awake awhile longer, watching him and wishing for what he can’t have.

Mika wakes up slowly. He’s wonderfully pain-free and comfortable, the morning sun kissing his face, covers halfway down the bed. One arm is draped across something solid and warm that rises and falls steadily. Mika lifts his head and looks down into Chris’s face. Even in sleep, Chris is turned slightly toward him, as if ready to spring into action should Mika want for anything. His mobile mouth is soft, face relaxed in a way it never is when he’s conscious. 

He stirs, making a grumbling noise deep in his chest, and squirms sideways, wedging one leg between Mika’s thighs and burrowing his face into his throat with a soft, snuffling sigh.

Mika holds very still, keeping his breathing even with an effort.  _ Why _ can’t he remember this man? What’s wrong with him, that he has no memories of a man who clearly knows him inside and out, who just as clearly would move mountains for him? Chris deserves to be known. To be  _ appreciated. _ He runs his fingers down the bumps of his spine, counting the vertebrae, and knows the moment Chris wakes up.

He goes utterly still but Mika doesn’t move, curious to see what will happen. After a minute, Chris lifts his head. His eyes are still sleepy but awareness is filling them fast.

“Um,” he says. “Sorry.” He rolls away and Mika lets him go. “How’d you sleep?”

Mika stretches, yawning, as Chris sits up. “Really well. My head doesn’t hurt at all.”

“Does that mean you’re making breakfast?” Chris teases. He stretches, arms raised, and Mika takes a minute to appreciate the graceful curve of his spine. Whatever it is they’re pretending may not be real, but Mika would have to be dead to not enjoy the eye-candy currently standing, yawning, and ambling into the bathroom, absently scratching his ass as he goes. 

After a minute, Mika shakes himself. Breakfast. He can do that. He slides out of bed carefully and heads for the kitchen. 

By some miracle, Chris has all the ingredients for Dutch babies, and Mika preheats the oven and sets to work assembling the batter, humming to himself. The shower shuts off and Chris appears a few minutes later, damp hair curling around his ears.

“I was kidding about breakfast,” he protests, sounding guilty.

“Might as well earn my keep,” Mika says lightly. He puts a hand on Chris’s hip and moves him out of the way to retrieve the cast iron skillet from the cupboard. Straightening, he frowns. “How did I know where that was?”

Chris smiles at him, making dimples flash. “Why do you think I keep my pantry stocked? It’s not for me—I can barely manage toast. What are you making?”

“Dutch babies,” Mika says, setting the skillet on the stove. “Can you start the coffee?”

“I’m assuming we’re not having literal children from Holland for breakfast,” Chris says, moving to obey.

“You mean I’ve never made Dutch babies for you before?” Mika asks. He clicks his tongue. “Are you sure we’re friends?”

Chris stops, coffee scoop in hand, and a stricken look flashes across his face.

“I was teasing,” Mika says, alarmed. “Chris, don’t look like that. What did I say?”

“I’m—” Chris blows out a breath. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s clearly not nothing,” Mika says. “Talk to me.”

Chris’s shoulders slump. “I… worry. That… maybe we weren’t as close as I thought we were. That I—tricked you into this. That if you had your memories back, you’d be—” He swallows. “You’d be mad at me for… presuming.”

“Presuming what, that we’re best friends? Chris—” Mika takes a step nearer. “There are two explanations for why you fought your way into the hospital to be with me. One is that you’re a creepy stalker trying to live out some perverted fantasy.” Horror flashes across Chris’s face but he says nothing. “The other,” Mika continues, putting a hand on Chris’s forearm, “is that we really are best friends and you were there for me. How else do you explain how comfortable I am with you?”

“Bad judgment?” Chris attempts a smile.

“Henke says I would die for you,” Mika says quietly and the smile slides off Chris’s face. “I don’t know—I don’t  _ remember _ and I hate it so much, but in all of this, everything that’s happened, the one thing I’ve been able to count on is you. I’m willing to trust my gut on this. Chris—” He shakes Chris’s arm gently. “Stop looking so miserable or I’ll be forced to kiss you.”

Chris’s eyes snap wide and he takes a quick step back.

_ Ouch. _ Mika’s smile slips but he drags it back into place with an effort. “Hey, it was a joke. Don’t worry, no kissing. Just… stop fretting, okay?”

Chris chews his lip for a minute but finally nods.

“I want to go out today,” Mika says, turning back to the batter. “I’m tired of being inside and it would help, wouldn’t it, if we went and had lunch somewhere together? Held hands and acted in love?”

“Yeah,” Chris says quietly. “That would help.”

“Maybe I’ll remember some stuff,” Mika says over his shoulder with a smile, but Chris isn’t looking at him, staring down at the coffee maker with a frown.

They spend the morning quietly. Chris works out, Mika naps. His head is beginning to ache again but he takes a pill when Chris isn’t looking. No way is he missing his chance to get out of the house.

A little before noon, they head out after Chris fishes up a pair of sunglasses for Mika.

“Dual duty,” he says, holding them up. “Hide your face and protect you from the sun.” He seems to have recovered his sweet disposition, his smile loose and easy as he waits for Mika to get his shoes on and then ushers him out the door.

Their destination is a restaurant in Manhattan. They’re recognized when they walk through the gleaming doors, the host ushering them to the back of the room and leaving them with a smile. Several diners seem to recognize them but no one approaches.

“Tell me more about the team,” Mika says once they’re comfortable.

Chris obeys, listing players and describing them.

“We play on a line together?” Mika asks after the server has taken their drink order. More people are watching them, some surreptitious, some not, and Mika reaches across the table and twines his fingers with Chris’s. Chris stiffens briefly and Mika smiles at him. “Relax,” he says softly, stroking his knuckles. “Someone’s taking a picture.”

It takes Chris a minute to pick up the thread of conversation. “I’m one of your wingers, yes,” he finally says. “Buch—Pavel Buchnevich—is your other winger. We have a new goalie now too—two of them, really. Georgie’s been with us a little longer, but Shesty just got called up a few months ago. He’s lightning in a bottle, Zee, watching him play is incredible. He’s a sweet kid, too. And then of course there’s Staalsie and Fox and Chytil. They’re all worried about you. You have an A, did you know that?”

“Really?” Mika considers this. “That’s… an honor. Did I come straight to New York from Sweden?”

Chris shakes his head and lets go of his hand as the server appears with their drinks. Mika lets him take a sip but then reaches out and recaptures his hand. Chris coughs, fingers tightening around Mika’s, and Mika brings Chris’s hand to his mouth and kisses the back of it, keeping eye contact with him.

Chris flushes a dull red all the way to his ears and his mouth opens and closes several times.

“You were saying?” Mika prompts, and it takes Chris a few minutes to gather himself.

He rambles about Buffalo and how Mika came to New York, but Mika’s not really listening, focused more on the feel of Chris’s hand in his, how his eyes keep flicking down to their hands nestled together on the table, the way he loses his train of thought when Mika thumbs softly across his knuckles.

More and more people are watching, and Mika has his eye on a couple a few tables away who’ve been talking to each other in hushed, excited tones. They get up and make their way across the room and Mika squeezes Chris’s hand in warning as the pair arrives.

Chris tries to pull away and Mika tightens his grip, smiling up at the couple, two young women clinging to each other and clearly trying to figure out how to open the conversation.

“Hi,” Mika says helpfully.

The taller girl shoves a hand out and Mika takes it.

“We j-just wanted to say… thank you,” she stutters. “F-for… you know.”

“It means so much,” the other girl interjects. “That you’re not afraid to be yourselves. That you’re  _ out.” _

Mika stands impulsively and pulls them each into a hug. They sniffle and cling to him and then Chris is there too, holding out a hand for their phones. He takes several pictures of them with both phones, then gives them back as they smile brilliantly at him.

“Can we—” The shorter girl fidgets. “Could we get a picture of you two? Together?”

“Of course,” Mika says immediately. He pulls Chris against him by his belt loop and wraps an arm around his waist. Both girls  _ aww _ in unison and hold up their phones. On impulse, Mika turns his head and presses a kiss to Chris’s cheek, making the girls squeal with delight. 

Chris is tense beside him but he manages a smile as the girls leave and they sit down again.

“You’ve got to get better at that,” Mika comments.

Chris mutters something under his breath.

“You don’t like PDA, is that it?” Mika asks. 

“PDA is fine,” Chris mumbles. His cheeks are pink again.

Mika tilts his head. “So it’s me?”

“No, it’s—” Chris takes a drink, obviously stalling. “It’s just… what we talked about earlier. I don’t want you to feel like I’m taking advantage, or—”

“But you’re not,” Mika says, reaching for his hand again. Chris doesn’t flinch this time, folding his fingers around Mika’s. “We agreed to do this. I  _ want _ to do this. I can’t, though, if you’re not onboard.”

“I am,” Chris protests. “As long as you know it wasn’t my idea.”

They’re interrupted by another couple of fans, and it’s several minutes before they’re in private again. The server comes by the table then and apologizes. Mika smiles at her.

“It’s what we signed up for,” he says.

“I’ll make sure they leave you alone for the rest of your meal,” she tells him earnestly.

“Don’t let me forget to sign something for her,” Mika says after she’s gone. He studies Chris for a minute. “I think you just need practice.”

Chris’s eyes widen. “I don’t think I like that tone.”

Mika smiles at him but Chris doesn’t look comforted. 

“I have an idea,” he says, but he refuses to elaborate until they’re out of the restaurant and walking down the street, hand in hand. They get a few looks, but not very many, and Chris’s hand is warm and firm and fits Mika’s perfectly.

“So what’s the idea?” Chris prompts.

Mika dodges a tourist. “I think we should have sex.”

Chris trips and only Mika’s grip on his hand keeps him upright. “You think we should  _ what?” _ His voice is high and a little hysterical. 

“Well, why not?” Mika smiles at a little boy who’s clearly recognized him, tugging on his father’s hand, but he’s focused on Chris, who’s still sputtering like a waterlogged engine. “You’re hot, I’m attracted to you, and you need practice in actually seeming like a couple.”

Chris lets go of his hand and stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk. He doesn’t even notice the swearing and rude looks as people part to get around him, staring at Mika. 

“You’re attracted to me?” he says.

Mika takes his hand again and pulls him out of the flow of foot traffic. “Chris,” he says gently. “I’m not blind.  _ Or _ stupid. Of course I’m attracted to you.” He hesitates. “But if you’re not—I mean, it’s okay if—”

Chris bites his lip. “I am,” he says almost under his breath, and Mika moves closer, pressing him back against the glass.

“Yeah?” he breathes.

Chris shudders, hands coming up to grip Mika’s waist. “I d-don’t… it’s not a good idea.”

Mika leans in and kisses the bolt of Chris’s jaw, savoring the soft intake of breath. Chris is hidden from onlookers behind his bulk, their own tiny island of calm in the middle of bustling Manhattan, and Mika kisses his throat.

“God, you’re fucking sexy,” he growls in Chris’s ear, and Chris groans, hands tightening. Mika can feel the evidence of his interest thickening against his thigh, but he doesn’t move.

“What if—”

Mika leans back enough to see Chris’s eyes behind the dark glasses. “What if what?” he asks gently.

Chris chews his lip for a minute and Mika has to fight the urge to kiss him again. “We’re team,” he finally says. “Even after this… whatever this is, is over, we still have to play together unless one of us gets traded. If it goes wrong—”

“Like what?” Mika takes a step back, giving Chris space to breathe. “It’s just sex. We’re mature adults. I think we can handle some no-strings-attached sex, don’t you?”

Chris runs his hands through his hair, leaving it in disheveled curls. It’s grown enough that Mika thinks he could get a hand in it and pull. The thought makes him take a breath, and whatever Chris sees in his eyes makes him shiver. 

“This is not the place to have this conversation,” Mika says, and Chris nods wordlessly. 

He follows him into the cab Mika flags down and they ride back to the apartment in silence. Mika watches him as they roll through the streets. Chris doesn’t look unhappy, or disgusted by the idea of having sex with him. But he does look conflicted, back to chewing on his lower lip, long fingers drumming on his thigh. He glances up once and catches Mika’s eye, and a faint smile flickers across his face.

Mika relaxes a fraction. There was affection and warmth in that smile, even if he still looks unsure. Mika leans back against the upholstery, abruptly disgusted with himself. This is clearly not something Chris wanted wholeheartedly, and here he is trying to talk him into it. He opens his mouth to tell him to forget the whole thing, he shouldn’t have brought it up, but Chris catches his eye and shakes his head.

Right. Back at the apartment. Mika nods and Chris’s eyes soften briefly before he turns away to look out the window.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hit my groove somewhere yesterday afternoon, then wrote half the night, and finished up the Super Angsty Fuckfest today (that's next). That means an early chapter for y'all today, and fair warning - if you thought it was angsty so far... um. Buckle the fuck up, kiddos, shit's about to get bumpy. (No one dies, don't worry.)

_ This is a terrible idea, _ Chris thinks as Mika follows him into the elevator and the car rises.  _ The worst idea in the history of ideas. _ And he can’t stop  _ thinking _ about it. Not now that he knows Mika wants it too, has maybe been thinking about it as well. Mika wants him. Mika is  _ attracted _ to him.

_ You’re going to get your heart broken, _ says a tiny voice in his head.

_My heart’s already broken,_ Chris thinks. _Because I’ll never really have him. Don’t I deserve at least _something_ out of this?_ _Something to make up for the fact that he’ll never actually be mine?_

Mika still hasn’t spoken, even though no one’s in the car with them. He’s just watching Chris with that lazy, somehow predatory interest that makes Chris’s gut tighten with need and want.

But when they’re safely behind the closed door, Mika’s the first to speak and he doesn’t say what Chris expects.

“I’m sorry” is what he does say.

Chris hesitates, hand on the doorknob. “What?”

Mika hunches his shoulders. “It’s pretty obvious you’re not interested. I feel like I pressured you into this and I didn’t—I don’t—”

Chris takes several quick steps toward him, grabs Mika’s sweater, and pulls him into a kiss, careful not to jostle his ribs. Mika gasps against his mouth but kisses him back urgently, wedging a thigh between Chris’s legs and gripping his hips hard enough to bruise. Chris grinds down against him, shaking with how good it feels, as Mika gets a hand between them to cup his erection, thumb stroking over the taut bulge.

“Fuck,” Mika manages when he tears away. Chris drops his forehead to his shoulder, Mika’s hand still working him through the fabric. He’s going to come in his pants like a teenager and it’ll be over before it’s begun. 

He’s not sure how he gets the willpower to grab Mika’s wrist, but Mika stops instantly.

“Not good?” he asks breathlessly.

Chris swallows a half-hysterical laugh and leans in to kiss him.  _ “Too _ good,” he manages against his mouth. Relief fills Mika’s eyes, and he kisses him again, gentle and slow this time.

“Should we talk?” he asks when he pulls away.

Chris shakes his head immediately. “No. I don’t—no. No talking. Please, I just—”

Mika cuts him off with a kiss. “Bed?” he suggests, and all Chris can do is nod.

In the bedroom, it’s Mika’s turn to stop him, when he reaches for the hem of his shirt.

“Let me?” he asks.

Chris swallows hard and drops his hands. Mika’s smile is soft as he steps in close and tugs the shirt up and over his head. There’s something like awe in his eyes when he surveys Chris’s bare chest, and Chris fights the urge to fidget.

“Zee,” he says, aware his tone is verging on a whine, and Mika’s smile widens.

“I’m appreciating,” he tells him. He puts a hand flat on Chris’s chest, running it down over his abdomen. 

“Can you at least—” Chris breaks off as Mika reaches for his pants. He makes quick work of the belt and zipper, pushing the slacks down but leaving Chris’s boxers in place. “Oh, f- _ fuck,” _ Chris gasps as Mika folds to his knees. “Don’t—Mika, your ribs—”

Mika tilts his head to smile up at him. “I’m fine,” he says. He leans forward and breathes over the damp fabric and Chris stifles a noise with his fist. Mika takes his time, no sense of urgency as he closes his mouth over the wet patch and sucks, working the suddenly rough fabric against the head of Chris’s cock.

It’s nothing like Chris had ever imagined, but it’s infinitely better than he’d ever expected. Mika’s fingers dig into the muscles of his thighs, small pressure-points of pain morphing into pleasure as he takes Chris deeper, soaking the fabric until Chris is gasping, hands opening and closing on nothing to keep from grabbing Mika’s hair. His skin feels hot, too tight, every nerve on fire and his knees close to buckling.

He gets a moment of unwanted respite when Mika sits back on his heels and yanks his own shirt off. He grimaces as he drops it but shakes his head before Chris can speak.

“I’m fine,” he says, and pulls Chris’s boxers down. His mouth is scorching wet without the barrier of fabric between them, and he works Chris with as much enthusiasm as skill, finding the spot under the head that makes him cry out when Mika flicks his tongue over it.

Chris reaches out blindly, trying to keep himself upright, and Mika grabs his hand, lacing their fingers together. Chris can feel the orgasm building, heat and pressure at the base of his spine, and he clutches Mika’s hand desperately.

“Close,” he manages, and Mika pulls off, still stroking, as the pressure snaps and Chris comes in a hot, wet rush. It lands mostly on Mika’s shoulder but there’s a smear on his cheek and Chris can’t look away, even shaking through the aftermath. He reaches out unsteadily and wipes it off with his thumb, but Mika turns his head and grabs Chris’s hand. He keeps eye contact as he sucks Chris’s thumb into his mouth, and Chris swears, undone. His knees finally give way and he collapses gracelessly in a heap as Mika laughs, triumph in it.

_ “Fuck,” _ Chris says, staring at the ceiling. “I think you killed me.” He rolls his head to see Mika smiling down at him. There’s still hunger in his eyes and guilt swamps Chris. “Sorry,” he says, pushing himself to his elbows, but Mika stops him with a hand on his chest.

“This is good,” he says, and undoes his pants. He sighs with relief when he pulls himself out, and Chris licks his lips, staring shamelessly. He’s never seen Mika hard before, and he doesn’t know if he ever will again, so he takes in every detail he can, hungry and wanting. Mika’s cock is flushed dark red and it’s leaking steadily, pre-come pearling at the tip and sliding in fat drops down the shaft. 

Mika’s looking at him, Chris realizes when he lifts his eyes, and there’s a moment that stretches between them, crystalline and fragile, until Mika groans, the noise ripped from his chest, and he hunches as he comes, catching most of it in his palm. Chris holds his breath, not sure if he’s allowed to touch or not, as Mika wipes his hand on his pants and then sags sideways.

He ends up half-draped over Chris, who’s still flat on his back on the carpet, his hair tickling Chris’s nose and breath hot on his collarbone. Chris takes a chance and strokes his silky hair out of his face.

After a minute, Mika laughs, soundless vibrations against Chris’s chest.

“What?” Chris asks, lazy and replete, his mind for once blessedly quiet.

“We never actually made it to the bed,” Mika says, and bites Chris’s pec, making him yelp. He’s grinning when he lifts his head. “Shower? This time I think I  _ do _ need help.”

Chris groans at the memory but scrambles to his feet to help him up and follow him into the bathroom.

Henrik takes one look at him at practice the next day and throws his hands in the air. “I don’t  _ believe _ this,” he hisses.

Chris does a quick check to make sure the words  _ I HAD SEX WITH MIKA _ aren’t actually printed anywhere on him, then drags Henrik to the corner of the room. 

“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” he says under his breath. 

Henrik glares at him and Chris can  _ feel _ himself shriveling under the weight of it. 

“It was his idea?” he tries.

Henrik’s glare somehow intensifies.

“It doesn’t—didn’t—mean anything,” Chris says, feeling increasingly like an ant under a microscope at high noon. “He just said—look, it’s none of your business. But I’m fine.  _ He’s _ fine. We’re all fine. How are you?” He winces as Henrik’s glare goes from murderous to—even more murderous, he decides, when he can’t come up with a simile.

“You slept with him,” Henrik says between his teeth. “And I’m betting, judging by the  _ guilt _ radiating off your face, that you haven’t actually told him how you feel.”

“Hey,” Chris objects, pointing at him. “We agreed that telepathy is cheating.”

Henrik is not amused. “Chris,” he says quietly, and Chris gives up.

He drops his head. “He—Henke, he’s… I just wanted to know—” To his horror, he can feel his throat closing up and tears pricking his eyelids, and he swallows hard. 

Henrik swears under his breath in Swedish and pulls Chris into his arms. “You stupid fuck,” he says against his hair, and there’s affection and despair in his voice.

Chris closes his eyes and pushes at the tears until they recede and he’s reasonably sure his voice will be steady.

“I’m fine,” he says when he lifts his head.

Henrik raises an eyebrow. 

“I’ll  _ be _ fine,” Chris says, and squeezes Henrik’s shoulder briefly before stepping away.

He’s better than fine, he tells himself. Mika is a hungry, demanding lover, but he gives as much as he takes—maybe more. He wakes Chris with lazy handjobs or blowjobs, working him through his pleasure with murmured filth and soft kisses. 

They fuck on the couch, in the kitchen, the shower, and once, memorably, in the rooftop garden at midnight, the city spread out glowing like stars at their feet. 

Chris is having the best sex of his life, and he’s hearing no complaints from Mika about keeping up his side of things. 

And it  _ is  _ making it easier, he discovers, to reach for Mika’s hand in public, to let the affection and adoration he feels shine through. He’s chirped relentlessly by the team when Mika shows up to an open practice and Chris kisses him in front of fifty fans, and he doesn’t even care, until he glances over and catches sight of Henrik’s face, tight with disapproval and worry. But Mika is grinning at him and pulling him back into another kiss and Chris pushes everything else aside. 

Mika is healing quickly, his ribs and wrist barely bothering him. He still has to wear dark glasses when he goes out in sunlight, and he gets migraines that put him down for hours if he pushes himself too hard, but on the whole he’s recovering well. 

Except for his memory. He still doesn’t remember Chris, or New York, or anything after 2015, no matter how hard he tries. And he does try. He asks Chris for endless stories about him, and them, and the team, brow furrowed like if he just listens  _ hard  _ enough, it will bring it all back. But it always ends the same way, with a frustrated shake of his head when it doesn’t work. 

“You have to stop pushing yourself so hard,” Chris finally tells him, about a week before Mika will be given the all-clear. He’ll be able to read again, to watch video footage of games, and he can’t wait, asking Chris for more stories as he frets through the final seven days. 

“I want to remember,” Mika says, setting his jaw at a stubborn angle. He rolls upright and swings his leg over Chris’s lap, settling on top of his thighs and bending to kiss him. “I want to  _ know  _ you. Not just who you are now, but the man I’ve played beside for years. My best friend. Don’t you want that back?”

“Of course,” Chris manages, and kisses him back. 

“Four years,” Mika says later. His leg is still slung across Chris’s but he’s half-buried in the cushions, completely naked and hair a sweaty mess. 

“Ngh,” Chris says, brain still offline. Mika’s mouth should be illegal, he thinks vaguely. 

“Four years,” Mika repeats, rolling his head so he can see Chris’s face. “And this—us—never happened before?”

Chris snaps alert with a sickening jolt. Mika’s watching him with nothing but curiosity on his face but Chris feels suddenly like he’s on quicksand, the slightest movement dooming him. 

“Well,” he says cautiously, “I mean… you had a girlfriend for some of it, for one thing.”

Mika sits up, shoving his hair out of his face. “But not the whole time. And you knew I liked both, right?”

“After you kissed Henke under the mistletoe your first Christmas with us and told everyone he had the best ass in the room and his wife was the luckiest woman alive, we all kinda suspected,” Chris says dryly, and Mika tips his head back to laugh. 

“God, that sounds like me,” he says when he sobers. “But you? Did I know you weren’t straight?”

“I don’t….” Chris winces. “We never really talked about it. If you knew, you never said anything. I guess it didn’t matter.”

It hadn’t mattered because Mika had never seen him that way, because Chris had never truly been an option for Mika as anything but his best friend. 

But he keeps those words locked down tight, and Mika makes a small, dissatisfied noise. 

“It just doesn’t fit,” he mutters, flopping back against the cushions. 

Chris is suddenly caught with the need to get up, to move. To get away, before Mika does remember—remember how they’re just friends, nothing more, never anything more, because if Chris had ever tried, ever opened his mouth and said what he’d truly felt, Mika would have looked sad, because he’s a good person and he’d never hurt Chris willingly, but he’d tell him it wouldn’t work, that he didn’t think of him that way and he’s so sorry, and Chris—Chris can’t bear that.

He scrambles to his feet, making Mika blink in surprise. 

“I’m gonna… go work out,” he says. 

“We kind of just did,” Mika points out, but Chris just grabs his clothes and bolts without answering. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING FOR EXTREME ANGST
> 
> That's it, that's all. Good luck!

He can’t keep doing this, he thinks as he sets the incline on the treadmill higher. It feels like a fever dream, vivid and over-bright and almost surreal with how perfect it is, and it’s going to collapse around him like a pricked soap bubble, leaving him alone again and somehow worse off than he’d been before Mika went into the boards. 

His feet thud against the rubber mat, his heart aching in time. Sweat drips down his face and he uses the hem of his shirt to wipe it away. 

No matter what they’re doing for the initiative, the groundwork they’re laying for future players, Mika’s going to eventually remember and then he’ll regret everything. Mika’s going to leave him forever, because Chris isn’t enough, isn’t enough, isn’t enough. And he’s going to lose him. 

He misses a step and nearly falls, hauling himself back upright just in time and punching the machine’s off switch with an unsteady hand. 

He’s the worst kind of coward, craven and selfish and  _ small,  _ but the thought that he might have kissed Mika for the last time makes him want to double over in pain. He steps down and makes for the door on unsteady legs. 

The gym in his building is equipped with state of the art machines, but Chris isn’t quite rich enough to afford his own private workout room, not with the space and flexibility this one gives him. The other residents leave him in peace, nodding at him in the hallway but rarely addressing him. Chris likes it that way. 

So he’s taken aback when he leaves the gym and nearly runs into a young man he doesn’t recognize standing on the other side, hand raised as if about to knock. 

“Sorry,” Chris says reflexively, and steps around him. 

“Mr. Kreider?” the young man says. He looks vaguely familiar, but Chris is pretty sure he’s not a resident. 

He hides the groan and summons a smile as he turns. “Hey, sorry, no autographs in my own building, okay? I can’t have people thinking they can just—”

“That’s not—I don’t want your autograph,” the boy says. He looks about an inch from losing his nerve, trembling in place with his chin tipped up almost defiantly. 

“No selfies either,” Chris says, voice a little sharper. His legs are tired and he wants, just once, for things to go his way. 

The young man opens and closes his hands, looking utterly lost. “Please,” he says, and his voice is wobbly. “I just need—”

On the verge of turning away, Chris stops. “What?” he asks, keeping his tone gentle. 

“Can I just talk to you for a minute?” the boy blurts. 

Chris takes a deep breath. Whoever this kid is, he clearly needs something he thinks Chris can give him, and Chris has never been the type to not help if he’s in a position to. 

“Are you afraid of heights?” he says, and the boy’s brow furrows but he shakes his head. . 

“My name is Jack Harman,” the young man says once they’re seated in the rooftop garden. “I’m a hockey player. I play for Boston College, which is part of why—anyway I’m going in the draft. I’m—” He ducks his head, looking suddenly bashful. “I’ll probably go pretty early.”

Chris takes a closer look. “Hang on, I know you. Holy shit, you’ve been setting the hockey world on fire.”

Jack blushes to the tips of his ears. He’s slim and delicate, built for speed and agility. Chris remembers watching one of his games on the road, bored in his hotel room with nothing else to do but watch college hockey. Jack’s playing was incredible, almost Gretzky-like in the way he anticipated moves three or four steps ahead of his opponents. 

“Seriously,” Chris insists. “You’re gonna give Crosby a run for his money sooner than you think.”

Jack squirms in his chair. “That’s not—thank you but that’s not why I’m here. I mean it sort of is but not really.”

Chris waits. 

It takes a few minutes. Jack clearly considers and discards several options before saying, “I really love hockey.”

“Me too,” Chris says. 

“I mean, it’s the only thing I want to do,” Jack says, leaning forward. “That’s all there is.”

Chris says nothing. He has a sinking feeling he knows what’s coming. 

“When I’m drafted,” Jack continues, “I want to use it to come out.”

Chris flinches. “No,” he says, knowing he sounds too harsh. “Don’t do that.”

“Why not?” Jack demands. “You—you and Mika—showed me it’s possible. You can be gay and play this sport, you’ve  _ proved  _ that. They won’t be able to rescind the contract—whoever drafts me will  _ have  _ to publicly support me.”

“Publicly,” Chris agrees. “Have you considered what they’ll say privately? What the team will do? Do you want that level of attention? Guys acting like you’re checking them out or perving on them? What about the abuse you’ll get on the ice, has it even occurred to you what they’ll say? What they’ll  _ do?” _

There’s definitely defiance in Jack’s tipped chin now as he glares at Chris. 

“You do it,” he snaps. “Why couldn’t I?”

Chris gestures at him, briefly speechless.  _ “Look  _ at you,” he finally sputters. “You’re what, a buck fifty soaking wet? You’re fast, kid, but sooner or later someone’s gonna catch up. You really want to be beat to a pulp, or pasted into the boards so hard you break something?”

Jack is regarding him with something like compassion when he stops. “We have to stop being afraid something bad will happen just for being ourselves,” he says softly. “You taught me that.”

There’s a boulder in Chris’s throat and he can’t swallow around it. 

“I’m scared all the time,” he manages after a minute. “For me. For Mika.” He  _ will not  _ cry, he tells himself fiercely. “For  _ you,  _ kid.”

“But you still do it,” Jack counters. “Because it matters.”

_ Because I told a lie to get into a hospital room and it all went to hell shortly thereafter.  _

“I’m not some kind of hero,” Chris says roughly, and stands. “You do what you’re gonna do, but don’t go thinking the world has changed. It’s just as ugly and brutal as it’s ever been, and it doesn’t give a shit what we do. It’s gonna keep right on being ugly and brutal and we can pretend all we want that things are okay, that we deserve love, we deserve—” He cuts himself off, rubbing his mouth with a trembling hand. “It doesn’t matter,” he whispers. “Things will never change.” He has to get away before he breaks down completely from the self-loathing choking him and the growing disappointment in Jack’s clear gray eyes. 

He takes the stairs at a run, barely seeing where he’s going, and careens around a corner headfirst into Mika, who must have come looking for him. 

“Hey—ow—whoa,” Mika says, catching him. “Chris, what’s wrong?”

Chris shakes his head blindly. He grabs Mika’s wrist and tows him back to the apartment. 

“I don’t want to talk,” he snaps, shoving the door closed behind them. “Take your clothes off.”

Mika’s eyebrows wing upward and Chris spins away with a growl. 

“Fucking forget it,” he tosses over his shoulder, and stalks for the bedroom. 

Mika catches him from behind with shocking speed, muscling him up against the wall hard enough to punch the air from Chris’s lungs. He goes limp, face pressed to the wallpaper as Mika holds him there. 

“If you need something,” Mika growls in his ear, “all you have to do is ask.” 

Chris swallows with difficulty. “Please,” he rasps. “I need—make it stop.”

“Make what stop?” Mika asks, his weight keeping him in place. “Tell me, Chris.”

“My head,” Chris whispers, closing his eyes. “Make it stop.  _ Please.” _

**Mika**

Something is wrong. Something is  _ really _ wrong, and Mika doesn’t know what to  _ do, _ how to fix it. Chris is trembling against him, his eyes closed and head tipped back, baring his throat as if in helpless supplication. Mika has to help, has to find a way to bring his smile back. He has the feeling that if he pushes, digs for more information, Chris will shut him out completely, and he can’t bear the thought of that.

So he nips Chris’s earlobe instead, hard enough to sting, and pushes him down the hall into the bedroom.

When Chris tries to turn for the bed, though, Mika pulls him away and steers him toward the bathroom.

“You reek,” he says, still pressed up against him from behind, chin hooked over Chris’s shoulder and arms around his waist. It looks like a normal lover’s embrace, but Mika is holding Chris upright as Chris’s legs threaten to buckle, and he’s taking both their weight as he guides him into the shower. His ribs protest, but Mika pushes it away, a distant concern. The man in his arms is his priority.

Chris isn’t speaking, eyes closed again as if he doesn’t care where Mika takes them, or maybe he just trusts Mika enough to keep him safe. Something terrible and tender lodges itself in Mika’s chest and he kisses the shell of Chris’s ear.

“I won’t hurt you,” he says.

Chris opens his eyes at that and protest fills them. “I want—”

“I know what you want,” Mika interrupts. “And you won’t get it. Not that. Don’t make me hurt you, Chris.”

Chris’s breath hitches and his head droops. 

Mika gropes for the handles and turns the water on, adjusting the temperature until he’s satisfied with it.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you,” he says, and pulls Chris’s shirt off over his head. His shorts follow, kicked to the side in a sodden heap, and Mika lets go just long enough to drag his own clothes off. Then he’s back, pressing himself up against Chris’s back and reveling in the slick slide of skin on skin.

“Put your hands on the wall,” he orders.

Chris obeys. His face is damp, whether from tears or the spray, Mika isn’t sure, but he says nothing, just flattens his palms against the tile.

Mika pushes his feet apart, tugging his hips out until he’s bent forward, bracing himself at an awkward angle.

“Don’t move,” Mika says, running a hand down Chris’s flank. “No matter what I do, you keep your hands on the wall and your feet where I put them. Are we clear?”

Chris’s throat works but he nods.

_ I wish I remembered you. _ Mika doesn’t say the words. He just goes to his knees.

The water slides down Chris’s skin in glistening rivulets, gathering in the groove of his spine as he arches his back, and Mika is struck momentarily speechless with his beauty. Chris doesn’t move when Mika spreads his cheeks and lets the water run across his tightly furled hole.

He takes his time. He rarely feels the need to hurry when it comes to lovemaking, and this feels far too important to rush, like there are faultlines running through Chris’s body and he could shatter at the slightest wrong touch. 

Chris's breath catches when Mika licks a broad swath across his entrance but he says nothing, resettling his weight. Mika savors the taste, bitter, earthy, musk and salt and so uniquely, perfectly  _ Chris. _ He explores the area thoroughly before pointing his tongue and dipping inside. Chris is tight and hot, clenching as Mika tries to press deeper, and Mika squeezes his ass cheeks sharply, a warning and a demand. 

Chris takes a breath and lets it out slowly. His body relaxes with it and Mika squeezes his handful again, this time approvingly. It’s easier to get deeper this time, and Chris squirms, breath going ragged. Mika hasn’t shaved in a few days, hasn’t seen the need, and he knows he’s leaving beard-burn on sensitive skin but he doesn’t slow down or back off. Instead he pushes deeper, biting and sucking at Chris’s rim until it’s puffy and loose around his tongue and Chris is moaning, tiny urgent noises that sound dragged from him unwillingly.

His hands are still on the wall, Mika sees when he leans back to check, and catch his breath. Chris’s head is drooping between his arms and his cock hangs heavy and flushed, but still he doesn’t move, and pride flashes through Mika.

“Doing so good,” he croons, and rewards him with a few quick, firm strokes of his shaft before going back to work. He works a finger in alongside his tongue this time, knowing that without lube to ease the way it has to burn like a fire in his core. There’s a bottle of lube on the shower shelf but Mika doesn’t reach for it. Instead he soothes the sting away with his mouth, sucking wet, sloppy kisses into Chris’s skin as he pumps his finger in and out, slow and unrelenting.

Chris almost moves when he adds a finger, back arching abruptly against the rough stretch, but he catches himself at the last minute and stays in position. Mika hums approval into his skin and Chris makes a noise like a sob.

“Please,” he says raggedly. “Mika, please, I don’t deserve it but I need—”

Mika’s mouth is busy and he can’t say what he wants to say.  _ You  _ do _ deserve it. You deserve everything. Whatever you think you did, it’s not as bad as you think. _

He rocks to his feet and grabs the lube, suddenly unable to draw it out any longer. Chris is tight around him as he works his way inside, inch by inch until he’s buried to the hilt in his silken heat. Mika gives him time to adjust, hands running restlessly over every inch of skin he can reach. He slips his fingers into Chris’s curls, definitely grown out enough to get a good handful, and pulls.

Chris goes easily, eyes half-lidded with pleasure. He lets Mika pull his head to the side and suck a mark into his throat, rocking his hips in a wordless plea for more.

Mika gives it to him, fingers digging into his hipbones hard enough he knows they’ll bruise as he grinds deep over and over, finding the perfect angle so he’s hitting the bundle of nerves at Chris’s center on every pass and Chris is choking on his moans, scrambling to keep his feet where Mika put them.

“Come on, then,” Mika says in his ear. He grips Chris’s cock and strokes, a staggered counterpoint to his measured thrusts. “Come for me,” he growls. “Let me see it, come on.”

The noise Chris makes is gut-deep, wrenched from him as he seizes and shudders and spills, suddenly vise-tight around Mika’s cock and pulling his own orgasm from him in a rush, bliss sparking his nerves alight.

They come down slowly, the water still pouring from the shower and their shaky breathing the only sound in the small room. Mika slides out and Chris makes a pained noise as he slips free, come pearling at his entrance and dripping down his leg.

Mika soothes him wordlessly, gathering his come and rubbing it into Chris’s skin in gentle circles.  _ Mine, _ he tells him with every stroke of his thumb. He pulls him upright and gently maneuvers him into the spray to clean him off. Chris lets his head droop onto Mika’s shoulder, all the tension gone from his body, and Mika doesn’t say a word, afraid to break the fragile peace.

He doesn’t bother with clothes, urging Chris out of the bathroom once they’re mostly dry and guiding him into the bed. Chris goes easily, limbs loose and pliant, and Mika plasters himself against his back. Under the covers, it’s going to be too hot in no time at all, but it’s all he wants right now, to be connected to Chris at every possible point until it’s impossible to see where one ends and the other begins.

“Can you talk about it?” he asks, nose brushing the nape of Chris’s neck and the damp curls there.

Chris shakes his head. “Mika—”

“Shh,” Mika says. He kisses the bump of Chris’s spine. “It’s gonna be okay.”

He’s not sure if Chris believes him, but he doesn’t say anything else. Mika falls asleep to the sound of his breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... sorry?


	9. Chapter 9

Mika wakes up to an empty bed, and he knows by the stillness around him that the apartment is empty too. 

There’s a text waiting for him. _ Errands to run before practice. Back for nap before game. _

Mika considers the ceiling. His ribs _ hurt, _ the result of way too much strenuous activity yesterday. He’s pretty sure that’s the only reason it’s hard to breathe deeply.

He texts Chris back. _ Feeling okay? _

_ Yes, _ is all he gets in response.

Mika frowns at the phone but doesn’t push it. He’ll talk to him before Chris’s nap. Face to face is better anyway.

He’s halfway through making breakfast when a random image floats into his mind. It’s Chris, wearing his uniform, pretending to look sober but then breaking into a smile. God, Mika loves his smile, the way it starts in his eyes and radiates outward before it ever reaches his mouth.

He’s smiling at Mika, head tilted to one side, waiting as Mika gets closer. Right before they bump into each other, Chris opens his arms and folds Mika into them as Mika drapes his around Chris’s neck. They’re laughing as they cling to each other, surrounded by twenty thousand fans.

The egg in Mika’s hand slips free and shatters on the floor. He jumps and swears, recalled to himself, and bends to clean it up.

That had been a memory. He _ remembers _ that day. He’d gotten first star of the game, and he’d felt the pride beaming off Chris long before he reached him, radiating out and wrapping Mika in warmth and love, and Mika remembers _ viscerally _ the feeling of working to stop himself from kissing him at center ice.

He wracks his brain for more, searching frantically for something, _ anything _ else. But nothing comes up, and he’s abruptly had enough of the self-control, of the waiting. He grabs his phone and opens the YouTube app.

Three hours later, he’s forgotten all about food. He’s curled up on the couch, watching games, highlights, interviews, gifs, everything he can find of him and Chris together, on the ice and off it. His head aches dully but he barely even notices, cueing up the next video. He’s so absorbed in what he’s doing that he doesn’t hear the front door opening, and he’s nearly startled off the couch when Chris demands, “What are you doing?”

Mika blinks, lifting his head and trying to focus. There are several Chrises in front of him at first, and it takes a minute for them to resolve into one, currently glowering at him from the doorway.

“I remember you,” Mika says without preamble, and the anger on Chris’s face dissolves into shock and something oddly like panic before it’s replaced by the most patently false smile Mika has ever seen.

“That’s great, Zee!” he says. Mika rolls off the couch and approaches him. Chris holds his ground, but his eyes are wary. “Is it all back?” he asks.

Mika shakes his head and a wave of nausea hits him. “No,” he says, ignoring it. “Bits and pieces. I’ve been watching videos of you. Us. Chris—” He cuts himself off as a spike of pain jolts through his temples and he doubles over, clutching his head.

Chris grabs his shoulder, steadying him. “Fuck, Mika, what’d you do?”

Mika opens his mouth to answer and his stomach suddenly twists violently and he vomits all over the floor. Chris swears and jumps back, and Mika goes to his knees, still retching helplessly. He hears running footsteps dimly, and then Chris is there again, a hand under his elbow as he urges him to his feet. He shoves a bowl into Mika’s arms when they’re upright.

“Use that if you need to throw up again,” he orders. “Watch your step.”

He guides Mika out of the entryway and down the hall to the bedroom as Mika clutches the bowl and his head pounds in time with his heart, a sick, vicious throbbing that wraps around his skull and buries its claws deep in his brain.

In the bedroom, Chris gets him into the bed, then disappears again briefly. He’s back almost immediately with a wet washcloth, which he uses to wipe Mika’s face and mouth.

“’M so sorry,” Mika slurs.

“Shut up,” Chris says, but there’s no heat to the words. “Can you keep medicine down?”

“Can try.”

He takes the pills Chris gives him, but it’s no use—two minutes later his stomach rejects them and he barely grabs the bowl in time.

“Okay,” Chris says softly. He takes the bowl from Mika’s trembling hands once he’s sure the heaving has stopped and carries it into the bathroom to empty and rinse it. “Lie down,” he says when he’s back.

“Threw up all over your hardwood floor,” Mika mumbles, curling up on his side with the bowl tucked into the crook of his elbow.

“It’s seen worse,” Chris says. “Besides, it could have been carpet.” He crouches by the bed and strokes Mika’s hair off his face. His eyes are soft with worry. “You pushed yourself too hard,” he says, and Mika scowls.

“I wanted to _ know,” _ he says mutinously. He reaches out and touches Chris’s cheek. “I miss you. I miss….” He squeezes his eyes shut, groping through the pain for the word. “I miss knowing you,” he says, and Chris takes a wounded breath.

“God, _ Mika.” _

Mika turns his face into the pillow. His ribs are stabbing him with every breath, no matter how shallow, and the pain in his head is flooding the rest of his body, making him feel tainted somehow, sick to the core.

“Try to sleep,” Chris whispers. “I’ll be right here if you need anything.”

“You always are,” Mika mumbles, and lets go.

He doesn’t really sleep—he’s hurting too much for that. But he drifts, dimly aware of Chris moving around the room, tidying up and then changing out of his street clothes, the dresser opening and closing near-silently. He leaves for a few minutes—presumably to clean up Mika’s mess, but he’s back quickly, sliding into the bed beside him. 

Mika doesn’t open his eyes but he wriggles backward until he’s pressed up against Chris’s side. Chris puts a hand on his hip, squeezing gently.

“How are you doing?” he murmurs.

Mika grunts in response, and Chris huffs a soft laugh.

“Fair enough. I’m gonna sleep, but if you need me, wake me up.”

“I love you, Chris,” Mika says, only half-aware of what he’s saying.

Chris freezes momentarily. “Yeah, bud, I love you too,” he says after a minute. His tone is light, almost careless.

_ No, _ Mika wants to protest. _ I _ love _ you. Like, really love you. And I think you love me too. _ But sleep is pulling at him, his consciousness fraying at the edges like a badly mended quilt, and he gives up. He’ll tell him later, when he can actually string words together. He’ll make him believe it. Make him _ see. _

When he wakes up again, Chris and the migraine—or at least the worst of it—are both gone. And his memories are back.

Mika sits bolt upright, wincing briefly but discarding the pain as vignettes flash through his mind.

_ “Hi,” Chris says, putting out a hand. “Chris Kreider. Think I’m gonna be your winger.” _

_ Mika likes his smile immediately, the warmth of his brown eyes and the smile lines around them. He likes Chris’s long nose and powerful build and dark, curly hair, too, very much. _

_ He’s approaching Chris after a win, flush with victory, suffused with delight. He can’t help moving to the music, biting his lip and looking at Chris from under his lashes as he grins. Chris just laughs as Mika slings an arm around his shoulders and lets his weight hang off him. Chris takes it without missing a beat. He always does. _

_ They’re on the bench, and Chris is angry. A botched goal, maybe a missed call, but he’s steaming, glaring at the ice as if it’s personally responsible. Mika can’t help it—he slides closer, wraps an arm around him, and pats his helmet clumsily with his glove, nearly cheek-to-cheek. Chris’s expression doesn’t change, but he relaxes against him ever-so-slightly. _

_ Chris comes to visit him in Sweden during the summer and Mika posts a picture of them with their arms around each other and grinning like fools on his Instagram with the caption “Reunited with bae 😍”. Chris laughs when he sees it and calls him an idiot, his tone affectionate. _

_ Mika’s scored his seventh of the season, and he’s exhausted from the shift but still zinging with happiness. Chris slides closer and leans in, holding out a fist. Mika bumps it absently and Chris turns his wrist to take Mika’s hand. He scoots even closer, squeezing his fingers gently as he tells him how proud he is of him, and Mika can’t help the smile. He doesn’t let go until Chris does. _

_ On the bench again, Chris watching him while Mika drinks from the nearest Gatorade bottle. His expression is distant, like he’s lost in thought, and Mika wants to kiss him for the thousandth time. Instead, he threatens to squirt the bottle in Chris’s face, and Chris blinks and rears back, the thoughtful look dissolving into laughter as Mika grins at him. _

_ Chris is skating for the bench, talking to Chytil, when Mika pounces, landing on his back and clinging like a spider monkey. Chris doesn’t miss a beat, he just laughs and carries Mika off the ice. _

_ They embrace after a win, and Mika tucks his face into the crook of Chris’s neck as Chris talks in his ear, arms solid and strong around him. He doesn’t care that twenty thousand people are watching. This is all that’s important—Chris’s focus one hundred percent on him as he holds him tight. _

_ “So Mika’s pretty fucking hot, eh?” _

_ Mika stops on his way past the partially ajar door at the sound of his name. It’s the first Christmas party since he was traded, he’s working on an excellent buzz, and he’s thinking seriously about ‘accidentally’ ending up under the mistletoe with Chris if he can manage it. But first, he needs a quick bathroom stop. _

_ He’s not sure who speaks—he hasn’t memorized everyone yet. But he absolutely recognizes Chris’s light baritone in response. _

_ “I guess,” he says, sounding bored. _

_ Mika flinches. _

_ “Oh c’mon,” the other speaker says. “You’re not into that? Seriously?” _

_ “Dunno what to tell you, man,” Chris says. “He’s a great guy, but he’s just not my type.” _

_ Mika hears footsteps down the hall and bolts before he’s caught lurking like a creep. _

_ He kisses Henrik under the mistletoe, well past buzzed, and doesn’t look at Chris when he lets Henke go, rumpled and laughing. _

_ He meets Irma three days later. She’s tiny and soft and smells like flowers and she’s everything Chris isn’t, and Mika puts every thought of Chris as anything more than his friend firmly out of his mind. _

“Chris,” Mika says out loud, tasting the word in his mouth. “Goddammit, _ Chris.” _ He checks the time—an hour to puck drop. He doesn’t have long, not with the way New York traffic tends to move.

He scrambles out of bed and sways as a wave of lingering pain swamps him. It’s nowhere near as bad—no nausea, only a faint ache in his skull. It’s bearable, he decides, and turns to the closet.

Chris had brought him clothes from his apartment weeks ago, including a suit, even though Mika had given him a dubious look. Chris had just shrugged.

“You never know,” he’d said.

Mika takes the fastest shower of his life, scrapes his hair into a club at the base of his skull, and gets dressed. He grabs the first tie he finds in Chris’s closet and stuffs it in his pocket as he hunts for shoes. As an afterthought, he grabs a snapback and the sunglasses Chris gave him just in case. Then he takes a pill and he’s out the door.

On the way to Madison Square Garden, he puts the tie in a quick Windsor knot. All he can think about is Chris’s face when Mika had said his memory was back, his tone of voice when he’d said he loved him too.

Had it all been a lie? Had he been pretending the whole time, _ humoring _ poor Mika, who’d lost his memory and didn’t know better than to want a man who didn’t want him back?

Mika clenches his fists and then forces himself to relax. He has to talk to him. If he can just look Chris in the face and _ ask _ him, he knows he’ll get the truth one way or the other. 

His knee jigs restlessly and he stares blindly out the window at the passing cars. The medicine is kicking in, blurring the edges of the pain, and he feels almost normal, except for the confusion tinged with fury burning in his gut. If Chris has been _ indulging _ him, faking… _ any _ of what they’ve been doing, Mika isn’t a hundred percent he’s going to be able to forgive him. 

The car is going so slowly. They’re not going to make it before warmups, let alone puck drop. Mika grits his teeth and doesn’t ask the driver to go faster or break any laws.

When they finally arrive, Mika directs him to the players’ entrance and tips him generously. There are very few people around, and only arena staff, Mika’s relieved to see. No eagle-eyed journalists hungry for a story on hand to grab him and ask him uncomfortable questions.

He stops briefly to talk to the guard, whose face lights up at the sight of him. Mika forces himself to smile, to ask after his family, but internally he’s chafing, desperate to get through the doors and find Chris. Finally, he’s waved inside and he jogs down the hall, ignoring the pain in his ribs. Loud music thumps through the underbelly of the arena, vibrating through Mika’s teeth. He checks the time again and his heart sinks. They’re in warmups now. He won’t have a chance to talk to Chris before the game starts.

The equipment manager in the locker room is delighted to see him and now that there’s no point in hurrying, Mika takes a minute to talk to him, and the others coming in and out of the room, all happy to welcome him back and ask him how he’s feeling. He answers the question over and over, smiling at them, but his mind is on Chris, who must be out on the ice right now. 

Eventually he manages to excuse himself and slip out to the rink. There’s a spot by the Zamboni doors where, if he keeps the sunglasses and cap on and doesn’t draw attention to himself, he should be able to watch without being interrupted.

If anyone does recognize him, they leave him alone. The Rangers are a swirling mass of blue on his end of the ice, Georgie in net. Igor’s off to the side, stretching. Fast, Chytil, and Fox flash by in a clump, moving too fast for Mika to see their expressions, and then there’s Chris, stretching next to Igor. There’s a smile on his face and he doesn’t seem to have a care in the world.

Mika balls his fists and takes a deep breath. He can’t confront Chris before the game. He _ can’t, _ it would be far too upsetting for Chris, who needs his focus to play well. Especially—Mika squints to see the other side of the ice and groans internally—against the fucking _ Hawks. _

He glances at the clock—warmups are almost over. Chris hasn’t seen him yet, and that’s good. Mika retreats, up the stairs to a corner of the players’ box where he hopefully won’t be caught on camera but he can still watch. He greets the occupants—several players’ wives and a few businessmen that own stock in the Rangers, and settles in to wait, rehearsing what he’s going to say when it’s time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aside from the conversations, which I obviously fabricated, every single flashback is something that has actually happened and been documented. In order:
> 
> [Mika hugging Chris after he gets first star of the game](https://greymichaela.tumblr.com/post/615150874263797760/backstromnicklas-when-your-best-bro-gets-first)
> 
> [Flirty dancing Mika approaching Chris](https://greymichaela.tumblr.com/post/612693111056072704/bretthowden-thats-love-chi-vs-nyr)
> 
> [The helmet pat](https://greymichaela.tumblr.com/post/186806109279/imbennguintrashbaby-jeffsamardzija-njd)
> 
> [Chris visiting Mika in Sweden](https://nhloffseason.tumblr.com/post/174147257543/zibanejad93-reunited-with-bae)
> 
> [Chris holding Mika's hand on the bench](https://radimsimek.tumblr.com/post/189575013086/%C9%B4%CA%8F%CA%80-%E1%B4%A0%C9%A2%E1%B4%8B-120819)
> 
> [The water bottle](https://greymichaela.tumblr.com/post/183809298804/brendendillon-stl-nyr-032919)
> 
> [Hopping on Chris's back](https://seokjinskosmos.tumblr.com/post/180363316139/72-20-93-21st-november-2018)
> 
> [Tucking his face into Chris's throat while they hug](https://greymichaela.tumblr.com/post/189659133949/stayonsidedumbdumb-can-u-believe)
> 
> So, you know. Feel free to join me in hell.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING for: blood mention, extreme Patrick Kane dislike. Seriously, if you like Patrick Kane, you're not going to like this chapter. You've been warned.

Chris hates the Blackhawks. _ That’s not fair, _ he amends silently as Strome takes up position for the initial puck drop. Plenty of Hawks are decent people, with wives and kids and good lives.

Not Patrick Kane, though. Chris glares at him from his position off to the side as the referee waits for them to get ready. It would be better for the world if Patrick Kane didn’t exist, Chris feels strongly. Even if he _ hadn’t _ run Mika into the boards, he was a particularly nasty piece of work and Chris wanted no part of him. The fact that he was an excellent hockey player just made Chris madder. In a perfect world, bad people wouldn’t be good at things, especially not Chris’s favorite thing _ in _ the world—besides Mika.

Kane catches Chris’s glare and smirks. 

Then the puck drops and they’re off. 

It’s chippy from the very beginning. Gauthier gets taken out by a trip that has him landing with his leg at a bad angle—he has to be helped off the ice, his normally smiling mouth tight with pain.

Chytil nearly gets run into the boards but he twists away at the last second and avoids the collision.

Toews scores on Georgie, then DeBrincat. 

Everywhere Chris looks, Kane is there. Stealing the puck, getting in the way, spoiling plays and _ smiling, _ always smiling, that mean, sharp-edged slicing grin that says _ someone’s going to get hurt and I hope it’s you. _

Strome jumps the faceoff and gets waved out of the circle. Chris is pulled in, and he settles himself across from Kane, who’s _ still _ smiling.

“How’s your _ husband?” _ he asks conversationally as they ready themselves. 

Chris ignores him. Why is the ref taking so long?

“Thought I saw him up in the box earlier,” Kane continues. “Nice of him to come support you and all that.”

“He’s at home,” Chris says reflexively, and curses himself for reacting.

“Trouble in paradise already?” Kane says, false sympathy radiating off him. “Have you tried therapy?”

“What the fuck ever, man,” Chris snaps before he can stop himself. “At least I still have all my hair.”

Kane opens his mouth to say something and the ref _ finally _ drops the puck.

Chris is off-balance, too slow, and he loses, of course he does. Kane knocks it between his own feet and back to his d-man, and the race is on again. Chris charges down the ice, cursing himself. He can’t look at the Rangers’ box, can’t take the time right now to see if Kane’s right or just trying to get in his head—odds are decent it’s the latter but Chris can’t be _ sure. _

He paces Strome, who’s driving toward the net with the puck, on the far wall, watching in case Strome decides to send it to him.

_ Is _ Mika there? Did he come to the game, after—after everything? After they had mind-blowing sex because he was having a mental breakdown, Chris amends. And after _ that _ … he still can’t believe Mika told him he loved him. He tells himself Mika meant it platonically, that it hadn’t been what Chris has wanted to hear for years, that it’s not _ real. _

But he’s not _ sure, _ and as much as he wants to know, he also just wants things to stay the way they are. Mika may want his memories back, but Chris loves it like this, loves _ him _ like this—always hungry for Chris, openly affectionate, never hesitating to show how he feels. He doesn’t want to go back to pretending they’re nothing more than friends.

Strome loses the puck and Chris dives for it but the Hawk in his way neatly avoids him as the play swings back the other direction.

Chris heads for the bench, exhausted, and flops onto it. From here, if he twists, he can see the box, but the only people visible are a few wives talking to a couple of businessmen, judging from the suits. He doesn’t see Mika anywhere. 

A flash of dark hair catches his eye from the corner of the box. Chris strains but he can’t see anything else, and then it’s time for him to get back on the ice. 

It goes wrong almost immediately. Chris hits a divot that bobbles him as he’s reaching for the puck and he misses it by a scant inch as Toews whips it away. Chris gives chase, gritting his teeth, and he’s in the perfect position to watch helplessly from too far away as Buch steals it from Toews and then Kane, _ fucking Kane, _ elbows Buch in the head from the side and steals the puck back.

Buch's head jerks and his knees give out. He crumples in what feels like slow motion, one hand going up to his head as he falls, and then Chris is past him and colliding with Kane.

They go down in a pile of flailing limbs, Kane spitting something furious. Chris feels a hard tug in his lower right leg but he ignores it, hauling back on his knees and punching Kane’s despised face with every ounce of fury and frustration and terror he’s felt over the past several months.

Kane’s head snaps back and blood blooms. He does his best to hit back, but Chris has height and reach on him, and all he has to do is lean back when Kane swings wildly. He peppers Kane with several more hard, quick jabs, knowing he has scant seconds before the referees arrive, punctuating them with a solid crack to his ribs.

“How’s it feel?” he snarls, grabbing Kane’s jersey and hauling him up off the ice until they’re nose-to-nose. “I hope I broke your fucking ribs, you piece of—”

Someone grabs his arm and drags him backward, up and off. Chris stumbles and several linesmen catch him simultaneously, hauling him back up.

“I’m fine, I’m _ fine,” _ he snaps, trying to shake them off. 

“You’re fucking bleeding out, you absolute _ moron,” _ the referee says, and Chris looks down to see a pool of blood rapidly spreading around him.

“Oh,” he says blankly, and dizziness hits him. He sways, steadied by the hands on him, and then the EMTs are there with a stretcher and they’re wrestling him onto it despite his protests. He’s fine, he tells them, the cut’s not that deep, but they ignore him, carrying him off the ice and down the tunnel.

Truth be told, he’s _ not _ feeling that great. He’s getting dizzier, exhaustion sitting like an anchor on his chest making it hard to breathe, and he gulps for air in sharp, short pants.

The paramedics reach the ambulance and load his stretcher into it in one smooth, practiced motion. Chris rolls his head on the pillow, grasping weakly for the nearest person’s wrist. 

“Need to tell Mika,” he manages.

“Hold up!” someone shouts over the sound of running feet, and then Mika’s _ there, _ climbing into the ambulance with frantic worry writ large all over his expressive face.

“You can’t be here,” someone snaps.

_ “Please,” _ Mika says, not taking his eyes off Chris, who can’t believe he’s really there. He’s dreaming, or maybe just hallucinating.

“Mika,” Chris slurs, and passes out.

The paramedics let Mika ride with them to the hospital under protest, ordering him to stay in the corner and out of the way. Mika obeys, squeezing himself into the space and making himself as small as possible. 

Chris is far too pale, five o’clock shadow stark against milk-white skin. His eyes are closed, head lolling on the pillow. The paramedics are busy cutting his pants off, stripping him down to get to the injury, and Mika swallows hard when he sees it. The gash is in his calf, and it’s _ deep, _ blood soaking through the layers of Chris’s uniform and still pumping sluggishly, coating the paramedics’ hands as they work to get the wound site closed. One of them is swearing, low and steady, in Spanish—Mika catches the occasional obscenity and agrees wholeheartedly with the sentiment.

“Posterior tibial artery,” one of the medics says, and the other grunts agreement. “Roll him over, I can’t reach the source of the bleeding from here.”

They flip Chris, one of them turning his head so he doesn’t suffocate in the pillow, and go right back to work.

_ Don’t you dare fucking die on me, _ Mika thinks with all his might, willing the thought into Chris’s head. _ If you die, I’ll fucking kill you myself, you hear me? _

Chris’s lips are too white. Sweat stands out on his face. Mika loves him so much he thinks he might throw up from the fear choking him.

The ambulance is flying, tossing them against the walls when it careens around corners, but Mika barely notices, too focused on the way Chris’s hand dangles limply off the stretcher. 

_ Please, _ he thinks. He doesn’t know who it’s to. Anyone who’s listening, probably. _ Don’t let him leave me. I’m not ready. _

The ride to the hospital is the longest stretch of Mika’s life. He hasn’t made a sound the entire way, and when the ambulance is parked and they’re sliding Chris out, one of the medics visibly startles at the sight of him, then jerks his chin as if to say _ come on then. _

Mika unfolds himself and follows, keeping a foot behind as the nurses meet the stretcher and take over. One peels off and stops him with a hand on his chest.

“Sir,” she says firmly, “sir, you can’t go in there, I’m sorry.”

Chris is disappearing behind a curtain, shouted orders blending into white noise in Mika’s head.

“Please, I—” He swallows hard.

“Are you family?” the nurse asks, eyes gentle but stance implacable.

A sense of fatality settles over Mika’s shoulders. “I’m his husband,” he whispers, and he would laugh at the irony but nothing about this is funny.

The nurse clucks sympathetically and guides him to a private waiting room. “Do you have anyone who can come be with you while he’s in surgery?” she asks.

Everyone Mika can think of is currently at the hockey game. He shakes his head briefly.

“I’ll be fine.”

The nurse hesitates but Mika just drops into a plastic chair, and finally she nods. “The doctor will find you as soon as they’re done.”

Then she’s gone, and Mika is alone with his thoughts. He puts his head in his hands. All he can see when he closes his eyes is Chris’s face, slack and unconscious. _ Chris. _

Mika loves him. He knows that with a stark, unmoving certainty. He’s loved him for years. He’ll love him for the rest of his life, and there’s nothing he can do about it. Even if he moves on, goes back to Sweden, meets someone else—it won’t matter. Some part of him will be in love with Chris Kreider until his dying day, and Mika wouldn’t want it any other way. Chris makes him better, stronger. He braces Mika when Mika thinks he doesn’t have the strength to face something. He fights for him—with him—beside him. He’s _ part _ of Mika, irrevocably entwined in his life in every way. It’s not the wild, heady rush of new love, not the chaotic waterfall of lust and infatuation, but stronger, steadier, a deep river that won’t be swayed from its course. 

And if he doesn’t love Mika back, doesn’t feel the same way—Mika doesn’t know what he’ll do. He rubs his face and sits up as the door opens and Henrik steps inside.

_ “Henke.” _ Mika meets him halfway across the room and Henrik hauls him into a hard embrace.

“Hey kid,” he says softly. “How’s he doing?”

Mika doesn’t want to let go, but he forces himself to, taking a reluctant step back. “He’s in surgery. The medics said something about his artery. I don’t—” He drags in air, pushing the panic away again. “What are you doing here? The game’s not over yet. Is it?”

Henrik shakes his head and guides him to a chair. “Shesty’s backup tonight. Coach told me to come be with you. The others will be here after the game.”

“Buch,” Mika says suddenly, sitting up straight. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” Henrik assures him. “Passed concussion protocol with flying colors. He was back on the ice before I left. I’m more worried about you.”

Mika shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

“How’s your head? Your ribs?”

“Fine,” Mika repeats impatiently. “Seriously, Henke, don’t fuss. I’m not the one in _ surgery _ right now.”

Henrik pats his knee. “Chris told me your memories were coming back in bits and pieces. How’s that going?”

“I remember pretty much everything,” Mika says, and leans back in the chair, resting his head against the wall. 

“Everything?” Henrik sounds curious and encouraging.

Mika closes his eyes. “There are still a few gaps. But Chris—I definitely remember him.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Henrik asks gently.

“Is he just humoring me?” Mika spits, sitting up again. Henrik’s eyebrows shoot up, but Mika isn’t done. “Am I a pity project to him? ‘Poor Mika, doesn’t remember anything, he only wants sex because he doesn’t realize I don’t feel the same way’?”

Henrik’s eyebrows notch even higher. “Um.”

“If he just went along with it because he didn’t want to hurt me by saying no, I’ll—” Mika’s hands are shaking. He shoves them under his thighs to hide it. “Henke, I need to _ know.” _

But Henrik shakes his head. “No. I’m sorry, Mika, but this needs to come from Chris. It’s not for me to answer.”

Mika slumps in the chair again, staring at the wall.

“One thing I can tell you, that I think you already know if your memories are back, is that he really does love you,” Henrik continues.

Mika rolls his head to look at him. “The way I love him?”

Henrik sighs. “Chin up, kid. He’ll be out of surgery soon and you can ask him yourself.”

Mika crosses his arms and scowls, and Henrik pats his knee again.

It’s over an hour before the doctor arrives, pulling her mask off and tucking it in her pocket as she steps through the door. She introduces herself as Dr. Collins, and she has a soft accent Mika can’t quite place.

“The surgery went well,” she says with a tired smile. “He lost quite a lot of blood, but the procedure itself was fairly simple. He’ll need rest and plenty of fluids once he’s released, and expect him to have a great deal of pain at first—that cut was pretty deep.”

“Can I see him?” Mika asks, nearly vibrating in place.

“He’s asking for you,” the doctor says, smile widening. “Don’t expect coherence though—he’s very out of it.”

Mika nods, just barely keeping himself from bouncing on his toes. “Please—”

Dr. Collins nods. “Follow me.”

Mika throws a look at Henrik on his way out the door. “Tell the team,” he says, and Henrik flaps a hand, shooing him off.

They don’t have far to go before the doctor opens a door and ushers him into a room. It’s dark, the only lights set in the ceiling around the bed, so Chris lies in a halo of pale yellow halogen. He’s turning his head restlessly on the pillow, hands opening and closing.

“Mika,” he says. “Mika, please—”

Mika slips around the doctor and crosses the room in two quick steps. “I’m here,” he says, taking Chris’s hand in both of his. “Hey, hey Chris, I’m here, can you hear me?”

Chris frowns, brow knitting. He’s still far too pale, and it makes Mika’s heart hurt. 

“I’m sorry,” Chris says, and Mika’s throat closes up.

“Don’t be sorry,” he manages. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Chris shakes his head, loose and uncoordinated. “Made you think—” He opens his eyes but they’re unfocused and confused. “Mika,” he repeats. “Mika, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Mika whispers, fighting back tears. “Whatever it is you did, or th-think you did… it’s okay. Chris, I’m here.”

Chris sighs and relaxes, his face going slack as he falls back into sleep. Mika stays where he is, watching him, his heart aching.


	11. Chapter 11

Chris comes back to consciousness slowly, his world fading in around the edges a few pixels at a time. He hears the beep of the monitors, soft voices outside the room, smells antiseptic and clean cotton, feels the thin, rough blanket under his hand. 

His eyes are heavy and feel like sandpaper when he blinks them open, but he manages. The first thing he sees is Mika sitting in the chair beside the bed, folded forward at the waist with his head on the mattress by Chris’s thigh. His eyes are closed and he’s sound asleep, judging by the slow, steady breaths.

Chris watches him for a few minutes, feeling more and more alert. If this is the last time he’ll get to see Mika soft and unguarded like this, he wants to savor it, so he takes his time tracing the lines of his face with his eyes, memorizing the details yet again. 

Mika stirs and lifts his head, knuckling sleep from his eyes. Awareness fills them fast when he sees Chris gazing at him, and he jolts to his feet, knocking the chair backward.

“You’re awake,” he says stupidly.

“Well, it’s not the fantasy I usually have, so I’m guessing so,” Chris says.

Mika doesn’t smile, and Chris’s stomach dips.

“How are you?” Mika asks.

Chris evaluates. “Pretty okay,” he finally decides. “But I can’t feel my leg. I still have it, right?”

“Kane’s skate severed an artery,” Mika says. His face is still unreadable, but he’s watching Chris so intently that Chris feels like a bug under a microscope. “They had to operate, but the doctor says you should regain full motion with proper rehab.”

Chris makes an aborted movement, reaching for him and pulling back. “Mika—”

“I know you just woke up but we need to talk,” Mika says flatly, and dread curdles Chris’s stomach.

“Or we could _ not _ do that,” he suggests.

“I remember nearly everything,” Mika says, ignoring him, and the dread turns into a solid lump. “I remember you, Chris. I remember _ us.” _

This is it, then. This is how it ends. With Mika staring at him, hard and implacable, his hair a mess from sleep and lines on his face from the sheet, and Chris loves him so much he can’t breathe, and he’s going to lose him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, or tries to say, but his voice won’t cooperate and it comes out small and cracked.

“You keep saying that,” Mika snaps. “When you first woke up after surgery and now—what are you sorry for, Chris? What did you do that’s so awful?”

Chris struggles to breathe. “I—I let you think—”

“You let me think what?” Mika asks. There’s no give to his voice. 

Chris squeezes his eyes shut. There’s nothing for it. He has to confess, and accept the consequences. 

“I let you think it didn’t matter,” he whispers.

_ “What _ didn’t matter?” Mika demands. He sounds like he did in the hall, when Chris had asked him to make his head stop. “Use your fucking words, Chris, I’m _ done _ with guessing at shit.”

“Us!” Chris shouts, and Mika’s mouth snaps closed. “I let you think it was just sex, okay? That it didn’t _ mean _ anything to me, it was just—” He takes a ragged breath. “I tried to pretend I wasn’t in love with you, okay? Is that what you want to hear? I’ve been in love with you for fucking _ years _ and I’m sorry, I tried not to be but I couldn’t _ help _ it, and then they wouldn’t let me in to see you and I was so scared, Mika, I thought you were dying and I’d never see you again, so I lied and said you were my husband so they’d let me in and then everything just—spiraled. I didn’t know how to tell you, not when you didn’t remember. It felt like… taking advantage. Or—I don’t know. I’m a coward, okay? But I couldn’t _ tell _ you.”

Mika is standing very still. When Chris runs out of breath and finally shuts up, he doesn’t move, just staring at him. Chris can’t figure out the expression on his face, and that scares him more than anything. He’s been able to read Mika’s emotions since a few months after they met.

Without a word, Mika spins and leaves the room. The door shuts quietly behind him, more final than if he slammed it.

Alone, Chris covers his face. He’d _ known _ it would end badly, that he was going to lose Mika in every way imaginable, but he hadn’t realized just how much it would hurt to watch him leave. He takes deep breaths, willing himself not to cry, but it’s no use—the tears are welling anyway, spilling down his cheeks.

The door opens again, and Chris looks up, expecting to see a nurse or maybe the doctor.

Mika’s standing there.

“I am so mad at you,” he says, and Chris flinches in spite of himself.

“I’m sor—”

“No,” Mika interrupts. “You just shut up for once and let me talk. You lied to me.”

“I didn’t m—”

“You’re right, you let me think it was casual. That it wasn’t _ real. _ Did you think I couldn’t handle it if I knew how you felt? Could you really not trust me even that much?”

Chris feels like he’s been hit. He can’t come up with words.

Mika’s eyes are sparking with fury, liquid in the dimly lit room. _ He’s so beautiful, _ Chris thinks fleetingly.

“Four years,” Mika spits. He shoves a hand through his hair. “Four years, and I’ve been in love with you for at least three of them, and _ you lied to me.” _

All the oxygen is gone from the room. Chris gapes helplessly at Mika, who glares back at him, implacable. 

“I—I don’t—”

“You were just never going to tell me, is that it? Just go through life suffering nobly because _ poor Chris, in love with someone who doesn’t love him back. _ Did you _ ever _ consider telling me how you felt?”

“Every fucking day!” Chris yells back, stung beyond reason. “You didn’t _ want _ me, Mika! I wasn’t going to force you to have to tell me you didn’t feel the same way and make it awkward between us, okay?”

“How do you know I didn’t want you?” Mika asks, his tone low and dangerous. He’s moved farther into the room, but he’s still at least three feet from the bed.

“Because—” Chris flounders. “Because I saw the way you looked at Irma. The way you looked at _ Henke, _ hell, I knew what you looked like when you appreciated someone, okay? And you _ never _ looked at me that way. _ Not once.” _

“Do you remember that first Christmas party?” Mika asks abruptly, and Chris blinks, thrown by the conversational turn.

“I… remember you kissed Henke. I don’t—what about it?”

“‘Mika’s pretty fucking hot, eh?’” Mika says, clearly imitating someone. He cocks his head. “But I guess I’m just not your type.”

Chris flounders for words. He feels like he’s drowning and he can’t find air. He remembers that conversation. His heart is banging painfully against his ribcage, hope and terror choking him.

“Staalsie’s a great guy,” he finally manages. “But you really think I’m going to tell him just how head over heels I was for you? The whole team would have known about it five minutes later and I never would have lived it down. Mika—” He fumbles with the controls of the bed until he’s sitting upright. “Mika, are you telling me you never—” He swallows past the boulder in his throat. _ “That’s _ why you never—”

“You are so stupid,” Mika snaps, but the fury is gone from his voice.

“I know,” Chris says simply, and holds out a hand. “Mika.”

“No,” Mika says, glaring at him. “I’m so mad at you, Chris.”

“I know,” Chris repeats, still holding out a hand. “I know you are, baby. And I don’t blame you. _ Please _ will you come here so I can kiss you properly?”

Mika’s glower redoubles but he takes a step forward, then another. He ignores Chris’s hand in favor of putting a knee on the bed and swinging his leg over Chris’s thighs, careful not to even jostle him.

Happiness is threatening to suffocate Chris. Mika’s expression is still thunderous, but he’s _ there, _ literally in Chris’s lap, and he’s just said—

“You love me,” Chris says, putting a hand on Mika’s thigh. 

Mika rolls his eyes. “I have no fucking idea why.”

Chris can’t help the laugh, even though it’s soaked with tears. “Me either. Can I kiss you now?”

Mika bends and Chris meets him halfway, stretching up into it, arms going around Mika’s neck. For all the fury of a few minutes ago, Mika kisses as sweetly as he’s ever done, lips soft and tongue seeking entry as Chris opens for him.

It’s several minutes before Chris can tear himself away.

“I love you,” he says, and his heart is threatening to thump right out of his chest but he has to say it, Mika has to _ hear _ it. “I love you so much, Mika.”

Mika folds forward and presses their foreheads together, hands coming up to cradle Chris’s throat. “I love you too, Chris.” His voice is almost inaudible.

“Yeah?” Mika’s out of focus this close up. Chris grins at him. “Even though I’m stupid?”

“God,” Mika groans, and brushes a kiss across Chris’s lips. “You are _ so stupid, _ but yeah. I guess I love you anyway.” He sits up, eyes suddenly serious. “Promise me you’ll never do that again.”

Chris solemnly holds up two fingers in the Boy Scout salute, trying to hide his smile. “I promise I won’t be in love with you for four years and not tell you how I feel, ever again.”

Mika glares at him. “No, asshole, promise me you won’t hide important shit from me. I mean it. I’m not—I can’t do this if I’m constantly wondering how you really feel.”

Chris sobers. “I won’t, Zee. Okay? I promise. I only did it because I thought—but I won’t. I swear I’ll talk to you about everything. I’ll talk so much you’ll be sick of me.”

“If I’m not yet, I don’t think I’m gonna be,” Mika says, and he’s smiling for the first time as he bends and kisses him again, and Chris closes his eyes and holds on tight.

EPILOGUE

“Come on, come on, we’re gonna be late!” Chris is almost vibrating in place as Mika hunts for a tie.

“Relax,” Mika says when he finally comes up with a suitable one. “We have over an hour, what’s got you so strung up about this?”

Chris hitches a shoulder, looking almost abashed. “Remember back before your memories came back, that day I, uh—did that thing?”

“Had a meltdown and basically demanded really aggressive sex from me without explaining why?” Mika finishes. “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to ask about that. _ Someone _ keeps distracting me.”

Chris gives him a brilliant smile, eyes crinkling, and Mika reels him in for a kiss on general principles.

“Anyway,” Chris says when they separate and Mika points him for the door. “Someone came to see me that day.”

He tells the story in fits and starts as they ride the elevator to the ground floor. There’s shame in the way he hunches his shoulders and stares at the tiles, but Mika doesn’t interrupt. He lets Chris tell it his way, until he gets to the end.

“I was an asshole to him,” Chris mutters, shoulders notching higher. “I was so fucked up about you, and I didn’t know what to _ do _ and here’s this kid wanting to come out _ publicly, _ like he has no idea the shitstorm in store for him—”

“His decision to make,” Mika says gently as they head for the parking garage.

“I know.” Chris heaves a sigh. “Anyway, I told him real life sucked and it was gonna continue to suck, and he needed to just accept that, and then I kind of… ran away.”

They reach the car and get inside, and Mika leans across the gearshift, pulling Chris into a kiss.

Chris makes a soft noise against Mika’s mouth. “Don’t,” he says when they separate. “I don’t deserve it.”

“Yeah, I remember you saying that then, too.” Mika squeezes his hand and starts the car. “You said it yourself—you were fucked up. Not thinking right.”

“I think I hurt him,” Chris says. “And I can’t fix that, or make it not have happened, but I can be there for him today. Because if he goes through with it, he’s going to need friendly faces around him. And if he doesn’t—”

“He’ll still need the support,” Mika agrees. “So this is why we flew home from Sweden early, huh?”

Chris smiles at him, slow and sweet. “It’s only June, we can go back after if you want.”

“I don’t care where we go, as long as I’m with you,” Mika says honestly, and Chris makes fake-gagging noises. “Shut the fuck up,” Mika says through his laugh, punching him in the arm. 

It’s been three months since Chris’s injury. With two of their star forwards out, the Rangers had done their valiant best but it hadn’t been enough to make the playoffs. As sorry as Mika had been for the season to end early, he was glad they’d had a chance to rest and heal. Chris turned out to be a terrible patient, complaining constantly when he was confined to the bed while his leg healed, but Mika could shut him up quickly with kisses, which almost always morphed into other activities.

They’d gone to Sweden when the season ended, as soon as Chris was cleared to fly. And now they’re back, going to the draft to support a kid Mika has never even met. Mika takes Chris’s hand as he drives. Chris squeezes it but says nothing.

The draft is chaos—it always is. Mika doesn’t miss it, or the barrage of questions and interest they get, appearing publicly together. But he and Chris are both professionals, and they answer every question they get with poise, until the first pick is gone. Chris pats Mika’s knee and stands, surprising him, but just smiles at him when Mika sends him a questioning look.

He climbs the stage, no trace of a limp, and crosses it to shake Gorton’s hand, then Quinn’s. Then he turns to the microphone and grips the podium as he says, “The New York Rangers are pleased to announce their choice, second overall, Jack Harman.”

The cameras pan to where a slimly built young man is sitting. He looks faintly shell-shocked, maybe at the sight of Chris, but he stands and straightens his suit coat and descends the steps. He’s going to pass right by Mika, and Mika stands on impulse, stepping out into the aisle. Jack stops, eyes unsure, and Mika offers his hand.

When Jack takes it, Mika pulls him into a hug. “We’ve got your back,” he says into Jack’s ear, and Jack stiffens. “Do what you need to do, we’ll stand with you.”

Jack clutches briefly at him, and his eyes are suspiciously bright when they separate. He says nothing, just smiles at him, and Mika steps aside to let him continue his journey to the podium. He catches Chris’s eye and a look passes between them. Mika smiles, soft and private, and Chris’s mouth twitches up as he turns to greet Jack.

Mika settles back in his seat to watch. Maybe he hadn’t expected his life to take this turn, but he sure as hell isn’t complaining. Whatever happens, he's got Chris, and that's all that really matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, that's a wrap! Thank you so much for sticking with me through this story and being patient when I hit so many blocks. I really enjoyed writing it - these two idiots are very near and dear to my heart.
> 
> [I leave you with yet more evidence of their bond.](https://greymichaela.tumblr.com/post/190993554674/skjei-watch-for-a-surprise) (I could have used so many more examples in the "flashbacks" - I was restraining myself!)
> 
> [And another time Chris visited him in Sweden](https://kolepal.tumblr.com/post/185230883634/w-sound)
> 
> Seriously, I could go on. 
> 
> Obviously, comments are my lifeblood, the more ramblier the better, and you can [find me on Tumblr](http://greymichaela.tumblr.com) if you want to commiserate over missing hockey together or bond with me about how amazing goalies are. (Oh, and Jack is gonna show up in one of my original hockey novels, so maybe keep an eye out for that as well. :)

**Author's Note:**

> [Btw, if anyone wants the link to that video of them talking about how well they know each other, here it is, please suffer with me through Chris thinking his best skill is screening for Mika and Mika chirping Chris about his lack of melanin.](https://newdorkrangers.tumblr.com/post/182252487123/i-know-him-like-the-back-of-my-hand-just-how)


End file.
